


Brighter Than Bright

by LilaDiurne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Charlie Weasley, Alpha Severus Snape, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bigotry & Prejudice, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Stillbirth, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Letters, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega Harry Potter, Omega Verse, Pining, Prostitution, Regency Era, Slow Burn, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 123,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilaDiurne/pseuds/LilaDiurne
Summary: England, 1814. At twenty years old, Harry Weasley is a clever, if somewhat sheltered Omega who has hardly ever left the small town of Hogsmeade, where he grew up. He would not say that he is lonely, just that the days are too long. Now that most of his siblings have moved on, Harry occupies his time the best he can while dreaming of London high society. Nothing much interests him apart from his books and the letters he receives from his brothers, so when the news arrives that the Longbottom heir has returned to take ownership of his father’s estate, he doesn’t make much of it. After all, it couldn’t possibly affect him. Nor could the arrival of a certain Mr Snape, the rude and arrogant Alpha who deems Harry “barely tolerable.” No, none of that could possibly affect Harry’s life, could it?Why yes, this is thePride and Prejudiceinspired a/b/o snarry fic you’ve all been secretly craving!
Relationships: Charlie Weasley/Original Male Character(s), Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 604
Kudos: 853





	1. dainty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anakletos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anakletos/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to **Anakletos** , my partner in crime and snarry soulmate, who passed her love of Jane Austen and all things Regency and Victorian onto me, who provides countless wonderful insights and ideas for this fic, and helps me with the incredible amount of research it requires.
> 
> This is my pandemic stress-relief writing, and it is largely planned but I don’t know at what frequency I will update because I have no idea when I will be going back to work. But I’ll try my best to keep a steady rhythm until then. I hope you’ll bear with me and that you’ll enjoy the story. Feel free to comment and share your thoughts. I’m liladiurne on Tumblr. You can also visit me there.

* * *

**  
Brighter Than Bright**

****

[collage by Anakletos]

“ _For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair_.”

-John Keats

* * *

**_-_ 1 _-_**

**dainty**

* * *

DAINTY, a. [ _dain_ , old French.]

  1. Pleasing to the palate; of exquisite taste.
  2. Delicate; of acute sensibility; nice; squeamish.
  3. Scrupulous; ceremonious.
  4. Elegant; tenderly, languishingly beautiful.
  5. Nice; affectedly fine.



-Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

The sun rises, bright and beautiful. Harry looks up just in time to watch it pierce the horizon, igniting the field with golden light. The warmth is overwhelming already, even in the cool, misty air of dawn, and though the grass is wet underneath him, he knows his clothes will dry long before anyone can see the poor state of them. He shifts slightly, almost languid, before settling back against the large beechwood tree, his customary refuge. As the sun spreads its rays wider and wider over the long grass, Harry’s eyes return to the book, fleeting swiftly over the words. A moment later, as his lips curl into a smile, he turns the page and continues reading, all in silence. He has an hour or so until the town bells chime, calling him back home. Plenty of time to finish the book. Only a few chapters left.

Right here, in this place, is where Harry is most serene. Away from prying eyes and judgmental or curious stares. Away from the commotion of the house, the pestering of his mother, the long sullen silences of his sister. Here is the only place where Harry enjoys this solitude that follows him everywhere. Here, it turns into a peaceful and luminous thing he can wrap himself into. He feels protected here, safe, with only the long grass and the summer breeze for company.

He would be at a loss to estimate the number of hours he has spent here over the years. Hundreds, thousands of them. The beechwood tree is his old friend, his protector, devotedly watching over him whenever Harry dozes off in its shadow on warm afternoons. Countless pages have been read here, countless emotions have been felt, the tree their only witness. It has seen Harry on his best days and on his worst. As a little boy sobbing helplessly, hugging his knees, hiding from the rest of the world. As a young man, sitting in silent contemplation, lost in his own thoughts.

Harry chuckles softly, the sound lost amidst the buzzing of the insects and the constant chirping of the birds. He turns another page and lifts his hand to brush a curl of hair from his forehead. Impertinently, it falls right back into place, but Harry ignores it, already lost once again in the book.

This story ends precisely the way he thought it would, the way every single one of these stories ends. Predictably, with a flawless happy ending. Ultimately, the hero surmounts all obstacles, and in the aftermath, finds himself standing on a cliff over the ocean, or any other romantic venue. There, the most noble and ardently righteous of the characters – commonly a rich duke or a count – finds him, gets down on one knee and declares his undying love. The overwhelmed hero accepts the proposal, and the story ends there. Such a finale is enough for most readers, it seems, but Harry has a sceptical mind. It isn’t enough for him to be _told_ that the young man lives happily ever after. Through all those pages, over the course of those long hours, he has become attached, protective of the hero. He wants to be certain of the true existence of this happiness, he wants to witness it, wants to be convinced that it exists, even if only in books.

He has barely turned the last page when the deep, forlorn ringing of bells echo through the countryside. With a sigh, Harry gets to his feet, stretching out a kink in his back, and staring regretfully at the vast field glowing with light. He would stay here all day if he could, but his mother will have his hide if he misses breakfast one more time. The book is small enough to slip into the pocket of his waistcoat, and that is where he safely tucks it, out of sight, before setting off through the long grass.

After a few hesitant steps, he breaks into a run, simply because he _can_ , because no one can see him here or judge him for it. Because it feels good to feel his heart beat faster inside his chest. And when he reaches the small fence leading to the gravel path, he does not even halt, he jumps over it with ease. He stops only when he reaches the road, short of breath and grinning, and brushes his clothes carefully, getting rid of brambles and twigs and pollen. After pushing the hair away from his face, making sure he is fairly presentable, he starts casually on the walk home.

The town of Hogsmeade – a quiet hamlet of very fine houses crossed by a pleasant river – has been Harry’s home for most of his life. A few of the bigger estates are vacation homes, occupied only in the summer and closed for the winter, but Harry and his family live here all year long. The Burrow, as the locals call the Weasleys’ ancestral home, is on the edge of town, where the main road fades into a narrow path which eventually disappears completely into fields and woodlands, where the river becomes a small creek rushing between mossy rocks. This proximity to the wilderness allows Harry to vanish unseen whenever he pleases. No one, not even the Lovegoods, their closest neighbours, can see him return home at this hour.

When first catching a glimpse of The Burrow through the trees, most newcomers raise an eyebrow, either amused or admirative, for it resembles no other house in the whole county. It must have been constructed by a group of drunkards, they think, and yet its charms cannot be completely denied. Taller than it is wide, it in no way, shape or form, corresponds to the hole in the ground after which it was named. Six storeys high is its tallest tower, and the biggest is almost as wide as the four smaller ones all joined together, all five of them decorated with sharply pointed miniature steeples and dormers. It is an odd house indeed, a wondrous sight of disorder and asymmetry, rumoured to be inspired by some splendid medieval castle which the initial Weasley patriarch had tried to reproduce, only to be hindered by a lack of architectural skills on his part and a lack of talent by the builders. The result, this singular construction of white stone and slate rooftiles, looks like something from a fairy world. When questioned about the origin of its moniker, Harry’s father grins and says – to the absolute horror of Harry’s mother – that it was so named because the Weasleys reproduce at an alarming rate, and thus The Burrow has always been, since its very first days, inhabited by a large and turbulent family.

It does not quite fit Mr Weasley’s description these days, however, as Harry, his parents, and his sister are now the only remaining residents. Early mornings are usually quiet, and this one is no exception. As Harry approaches the house, there is only the chirping of birds and the flapping of ducks in the river when he crosses the small footbridge. Then there is faint chatter coming from the barn, of animals and humans alike, and Hagrid’s sudden booming laughter. When Harry reaches the side porch, the sound of the pianoforte drifts through the open windows as Ginny dutifully attends to her morning practice. She glances up briefly when Harry rushes through the room, but does not otherwise react, used by now to his early comings and goings.

Arthur Weasley has just wandered into his study, his greying red hair still tousled by sleep. He stifles a yawn, ready to attend to the steaming cup of tea waiting on his desk every morning, when Harry enters. “Money for the post, is it?” he asks before Harry can open his mouth, regarding his youngest son with a fond smile. “Good morning to you as well.”

“Good morning,” Harry says, grinning.

“I _would_ inquire on your whereabouts this morning, but I believe I know better by now,” his father says, already rummaging through an old coin purse. “Staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Always.” When his father presents him with a handful of coins, Harry hesitates. “That’s much more than I–”

“For the week. And buy yourself a present with the rest,” Mr Weasley insists, putting the money into Harry’s hand and curling the young man’s fingers around it. “I am not so old yet that I would forget,” he adds softly. “Happy birthday, my boy.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Harry mumbles. He only calls his father such when they are alone, when there is no one around to hear. In his presence, Harry often feels that, despite his twenty years, he might still be the little boy he was when he met Arthur Weasley for the first time.

His father pats him on the cheek affectionately, as he is in the habit of doing, and finally reaches for his cup of tea. “I suspect your mother, on the other hand, will not remember. Do find it in your heart to forgive her, but I believe she will have matters of _utmost_ importance on her mind this fine morning.”

There is a conspiratorial tone to his voice that makes Harry smirk. “And what are those?”

Mr Weasley shrugs, but he smiles as he sinks into the old armchair by his desk. “You’ll find out soon enough. Oh, Harry!” he adds before his son can leave the room. “Change that waistcoat, would you? Have some regard for your mother’s poor nerves. And no going into town until you’ve at least had breakfast.”

“Yes, Papa,” Harry promises before dashing away and up the stairs.

Located at the top of the southeast tower, Harry’s bedroom is quite a strange one. Hexagon shaped, with three windows and a conical roof, it is the highest point of the house now – since his father has declared the northern tower out of bounds because of its poorly built foundation. The first window offers a view of the river, all the way across the open fields and forestlands stretching south. Harry is particularly fond of sitting there with a book when the weather does not allow his usual outdoors reading. The second window overlooks the road leading to the town and some of the houses alongside it. On a good, clear day, Harry can see the church steeples of neighbouring villages in the distance. The third window faces north, towards the farmlands and the moors. There is a small, crooked sort of dormer built into the roof overhead, through which the moonlight shines brightly some nights.

The room is not very large. If Harry were to compare it to Bill’s old bedroom, or to Ginny’s, it pales in comparison, but it is his favourite in the house, and he is perfectly happy with it. Daylight has a way of filling the space so as to make it look homely and warm. Harry loves the smell of the wood, the way the floor creaks under his footsteps. He loves the little desk laden with letters and inkpots. He loves the candle holders dripping with wax, the shelves full of books, the thick blankets on the bed he safely huddles under on cold nights. He loves the pictures his brothers have sent him from London – posters of theatre productions, for the most part – that now adorn the walls and the slanted ceiling.

Hedwig is lying in a patch of sunlight on his hastily made bed, once again ignoring the cushion Harry has painstakingly fabricated for her when his mother insisted that he learn the basics of sewing. She throws him a quick look when he enters, then returns to her napping.

“Don’t _you_ live a hard life,” Harry remarks, frowning down at her. She starts purring loudly, as if in response.

Catching his reflection in the tall mirror, Harry sees that a large, muddy brown stain has formed on the side of his waistcoat and he sighs heavily, searching around the room for something clean to wear. He finds a reasonably presentable waistcoat on the old armchair – the one that gathers whichever item of clothing or object he is not willing to put away properly – and changes into it, making sure to tuck the little book safely into the pocket. After trying in vain to flatten his messy curls, Harry stares at his figure for a while before shrugging with indifference. Impatient to start the day, and quite hungry by now, his trouser pocket heavy with the coins his father gave him, Harry heads for the stairs just as the bell announcing breakfast echoes through the house.

“Come, Hedwig!” he calls over his shoulder. There is a soft mewl and the rapid patting of paws on the wooden floor as she takes off after him, eager for food.

Upon entering the kitchen, Harry snatches a steaming bun from the cooling pan and bites hungrily into it, gasping at the sudden heat, while Hedwig proceeds to rub herself all over Winky’s ankles, meowing for attention.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the cook mutters in annoyance, wiping flour covered hands on her apron. “Will you just _wait_ , you impertinent little thing?”

“Are you talking about me or the cat?” Harry asks around his burning hot mouthful of bread, chewing rapidly.

“What are you _doing_? You’ll scald yourself, you idiot boy!” she shrieks, seizing the bread from his hands. “You’re just as bad as this greedy, ill-mannered creature!” She pushes the cat away gently with her foot before rounding on him again, a curl of grey hair falling into her narrowed eyes. “There’s bread on the table! Go take it from there!”

Laughing, Harry scrambles from the kitchen before she can chase him away with her rolling pin, and he resolves to join the rest of his family in the dining room. His father is sitting at the head of the large polished table, as usual, completely hidden behind _The Times_. On his left, Ginny is pouring herself some tea, her long red hair falling in beautiful curls around her face. Harry grabs a new bun from the table and plops down on the seat in front of her.

“Where’s Mamma?” he barely has the time to ask before she barges into the room, her face red and hair half undone, looking as though she has just run the whole way back from town.

“Arthur! Oh, Arthur! Have you heard the wonderful news?” she exclaims shrilly, rushing around the table. Careless in her attempt to get her husband’s attention, she bumps into Harry’s chair quite roughly and he ducks his head just in time. Her elbow grazes his ear when she reaches out to rip the paper from his father’s hands.

Harry grins at Ginny. His sister raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but the corner of her mouth curls in amusement before she takes a small sip of tea. They start eating, both of them unmoved by their mother’s feat of hardly repressed enthusiasm, a common occurrence at The Burrow.

“I have certainly heard _something_ , my dear,” Harry’s father replies calmly, picking up his knife to gather a thick smear of butter on the blade. “Whether it is wonderful news remains to be determined.”

Mrs Weasley rolls up the paper, as if planning to thwack him on the head with it, then seems to change her mind and tosses it on the table, out of her husband’s reach. “The Longbottom estate is to be occupied again at last!” she announces. “Don’t you want to know who has taken it?”

Harry ducks again as her elbow brushes the back of his head this time, before moving to settle in the chair to his right, out of her reach. His mother immediately takes the seat he has just vacated, peering closely at her husband, who is now serenely spreading butter on his bread.

“Yes, yes, absolutely,” he mumbles. “Though I fear you’ll tell me either way.”

Never one to need further prompting, it is with pure glee that she announces, “Why, the Longbottoms’ own son has returned! Mrs McLaggen has just sent me a note this very morning. He has been living in Derbyshire all these years, she says, raised by relatives after old Mrs Longbottom died when he was a boy. She says that he came down yesterday to see the manor and was so delighted he announced he would take possession of it at once! Five thousand a year, she says! She says some of his servants are to be settled in the house by tonight!”

She waits with bated breath for her husband to react, but his attention has been captured by Winky, who has just walked in with the hard-boiled eggs. “Oh, thank you, Mrs Winslow!” he says kindly, already reaching for one.

She nods, her eyes falling on Harry, who is busy wrapping a piece of bread around a large chunk of cheese. He grins widely, and she finally smiles, winking at him before retreating back into the kitchen.

“And is the young man married?” Mr Weasley asks casually as he starts on his egg, peeling the shell with care. Harry smiles, knowing very well that this is precisely the subject his mother is so eager to discuss.

“He is _not_!” she exclaims at once, barely waiting for her husband to finish talking. “A single young man! And with such a fortune! What a fine thing for our Ginny!”

Harry’s eyes meet Ginny’s again. He is curious to know if she would like to add anything to their mother’s statement, but his sister avoids his stare this time, reaching for an egg herself.

Harry’s father frowns, feigning confusion. “Ginny? What on earth does this have to do with her?”

Mrs Weasley raises her arms in sudden exasperation, and Harry slides further away until he is sitting on the very edge of his chair. This way, if she accidentally hits the kettle, he will not get doused with burning tea.

“Oh, how can you be so tiresome?” she shrieks. “He has to _marry_ her, of course!”

Mr Weasley lifts a surprised eyebrow and looks furtively at Harry, who is already smirking. “Is that _precisely_ why he has returned, Molly dear?” he asks with something like wonder. “To marry our Ginny?”

“What? No, of course not! Not _precisely_! But he may very well fall in love with her!” she declares fiercely. “And to make it so, you _must_ visit him as soon as possible! As soon as he is settled at the house!”

Mr Weasley lets his shoulders slump and sighs heavily. “As soon as? Oh _no_. I feel no desire to whatsoever. _You_ may go, if you like, and bring Ginny with you. Or go alone, if you wish. You are as handsome as our daughter. Who knows? Mr Longbottom may like you best,” he finishes lightly, before taking a large bite of bread.

Harry chuckles, but Ginny remains silent, pouring herself some more tea.

Mrs Weasley scoffs, patting her husband playfully on the arm. “Don’t try to flatter me!” she says, but then she adjusts her hair, and a blush rises to her cheeks. “I certainly have had my fair share of suitors,” she adds, addressing her children this time. “When I was a young lady, they hovered constantly about the house, trying to catch a glimpse of me. My brothers had to chase them away!” she insists, as if someone is about to contradict her, but Harry nods vigorously as he chews. “I had hair just as lovely as yours,” she tells Ginny, “although I would never pretend to equal you in beauty, my dear. But that time has long passed. Once a woman has children, she cannot think of her own beauty anymore.”

“Then very few women must think of their own beauty at all,” Harry remarks.

“Oh, shush, _you_!” his mother hisses before turning back to her husband. “You simply _must_ visit Mr Longbottom when he comes! Think of your daughter, Arthur! Think what an opportunity it would be for her! Mrs McLaggen says even Mr Lovegood will visit. You know he never visits any newcomers. How will it look if he visits and _you_ don’t? What will people think? You _must_ go as well. It would be impossible for us to visit otherwise.”

“Still, my dear, I have no desire to,” Harry’s father remarks. Having finished his first egg while his wife was talking, he reaches for a second one. “But I think Mr Longbottom would be very glad to see you. And I will even send a note by you, to assure him of my consent if ever he wants to marry Ginny. Though I must throw in a good word for Harry as well–”

“For Harry?” Mrs Weasley interrupts. “You will do no such thing! What use would a respectable young man such as Mr Longbottom have with an Omega?”

“What use indeed?” Harry wonders aloud, only to be completely ignored by his mother. Across the table, Ginny lightly grimaces and throws him a pitiful glance, but Harry is not hurt, accustomed as he is by now to his mother’s inconsiderate remarks. He knows she means nothing harmful by it – she simply has never mastered the art of thinking before she speaks.

“Harry has some wits about him, for one thing,” Mr Weasley explains. “Perhaps Mr Longbottom would appreciate. All men have different tastes, my dear.”

“ _Wits_?” Mrs Weasley repeats shrilly. “Is that why you favour him over your own children? For his wits?”

“I’m sitting here,” Harry remarks, only to be ignored once more.

Mr Weasley shakes his head. “I don’t favour him, Molly. I am merely aware that he deserves the same attention as Ginny,” he says softly, “a fact you sometimes seem to disregard. Perhaps even _more_ attention, as his position requires some careful–”

“Oh, forget Harry for now!” Mrs Weasley exclaims. “Mrs McLaggen has confirmed that Mr Longbottom is a Beta. I can assure you he will not spare Harry a single glance–”

“May I be excused?” Harry asks, rapidly losing his appetite as well as any desire to remain in the room.

“A Beta, yes, but what of it?” Mr Weasley inquires. “It is no reason to exclude the possibility that he could–”

“You take great delight in annoying me, don’t you?” Mrs Weasley shrieks, her voice so dangerously strident her husband winces. “You have no compassion for my poor nerves!”

Harry simply stands, with no regard to politeness, and grabs one last bun from the table before leaving the room, unnoticed by his quarrelling parents. He heads outside at once and sets off on the road leading into town, wolfing down the last piece of bread as he goes. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and in an effort to vent his frustration, kicks a large rock, sending it flying off the road and away into the long grass.

The Longbottom estate is one of the largest in the county. Like The Burrow, it stands somewhat isolated, on the outskirts of town, and in fact, if Harry were to keep walking south through the fields, into the woods beyond, and across a small extent of moorlands, he would eventually reach it. In the fall, when the trees start shedding, he can make it out in the distance from his bedroom window – a handsome manor house which has been deserted since the untimely death of Mr Longbottom and his wife. Their young son had been taken in by his father’s widowed mother, who had settled in London until her own death, when her grandson was still a young boy. No one had had a glimpse of the Longbottom heir for years, but his family’s status and the mystery surrounding the large, empty estate had long been food for gossip. Surely Harry’s father has been informed of the whole affair of his return by Dr Granger yesterday. The two men are in the habit of regularly visiting each other to share a brandy, sometimes conversing late into the night. And Hermione’s father always seems to know everything before everyone else does.

The town is already bustling at this hour, with people going about their errands before the day gets too hot. Harry heads straight to Mr Ollivander’s General Store, which houses the postal counter. The bell chimes as he enters the dim shop and is immediately greeted by the owner, with his mysterious grin and his head of messy silver hair.

“Good morning to you, young Mr Weasley!” Mr Ollivander says from behind the counter. He immediately plucks out a letter from this morning’s stack and holds it out. “Another one from France. Your brother Charles, I believe?”

“Yes, good morning,” Harry greets, hurrying over. Hastily, he pays Mr Ollivander the fare and is handed the letter in exchange. It is quite thick this time, Harry realises with excitement, slipping it into his pocket to read later.

“Good news, I hope,” Mr Ollivander says.

“So do I. Anything from London?”

“I’m afraid not. Not today, no. Should he not have returned now?” Mr Ollivander asks curiously. “Charles. The fighting has been over for months.”

Harry almost scoffs at the old man for pretending not to know _exactly_ what has happened to his brother. Every woman in town with a daughter of marriageable age is eagerly awaiting Charlie’s return so as to throw said daughter at his feet. In their minds, nothing could be better than having a courageous, decorated cavalry soldier as a son-in-law. Particularly when he happens to be a handsome young Alpha.

“He was hurt in battle. It’s not safe for him to travel yet,” Harry explains briefly, already heading towards the door. He refuses to participate to the town’s avid gossip circle, of which the old man is undoubtedly an active participant, and of which he, himself, is surely a common subject of conversation. “Thank you, Mr Ollivander. Good day.”

Swiftly, already feeling lighter and happier at the prospect of news from Charlie, Harry heads a few doors down to the tiny shop that sells stationary. He is usually content with the foolscap sheets the general store offers and that he cuts himself at home, but the excess money in his pocket can cover a little extravagance. Harry has no intention to spend it all, however. He will save most of it for when he finally gets to visit London. For the theatre perhaps, or a poetry lecture or a visit to the museum. And Charlie _did_ promise to take him to Astley’s! He buys only a small bundle of soft watermarked notepaper that the lady carefully wraps for him and that he resolves to use only for the most important correspondence. Then, his new purchase safely tucked under his arm, Harry walks back the way he came.

When he is well out of the town centre and walking down the tree-lined road, he finally takes out the letter and unfolds it.

_Toulouse,_   
_19 July 1814_

_Dear Harry,_

_I have not yet received your reply to my last letter, but I wanted to write earlier so that you hopefully receive this in time for your birthday. Writing to you is also my only distraction. I am still bedridden and will be for a few weeks more, from what I can understand. The only nurse who could speak English has left, and I am now without the slightest conversation companion, and regretting a little more each day not to have learned French properly when I could. I have already finished the two books that you sent and have enjoyed them thoroughly, particularly Zastrozzi. Please send more if you can. The days here are long, warm, and very quiet, but the nurses often bring flowers and I can see outside the window. I shall not complain. I am lucky to be here, so well taken care of. I have heard stories of other soldiers who have died in transport or from neglect. I am simply lonely and have lately become prone to melancholy. I know you will understand. I can almost see you smile._

_Tell Mother and Father I am well. My wound does not pain me so much anymore, though I cannot use my right arm for long before it becomes tiresome, and they will not let me use ink yet, probably in fear that I will make a mess of the sheets. I shall keep using the pencil for now, if you will forgive me for it. The nurses change the bandages nearly every day and bathe me whenever I ask. The food is delicious. I think I will miss it when I finally come home._

_I very much wanted to send you a present for your birthday, but being unable to leave my bed, it was impossible for me to find one, and I cannot ask the nurses too many favours. Firstly, because I am never quite certain they understand, and secondly, because they already do so much for me by sending my letters, for which I am most grateful. In lieu of a present, I am sending you a drawing of Thaddeus. Unfortunately, it is unfinished, for I could only work on it a little every day. I hope you will like it and hang it in your bedroom. I dream about him often these days. I would never admit this to anyone but you, but the thought of him brings tears to my eyes sometimes._

_Happy birthday, little brother. I miss you dearly and wish with all my heart that you were here to keep me company._

_Love,_   
_Charlie_

The drawing is on a separate page, all creased up from being folded inside the letter, but Harry stops in the middle of the road to stare at it. Even with only a partial use of his arm, Charlie has, as always, managed a beautiful picture. It shows only the horse’s head, gracefully bent and looking downwards. The eyes are unfinished, with no pupils, giving the animal an expression of forlorn sadness, and the defined shadows give the impression of it being bathed with light. It has only the beginning of a mane, darker lines on top of the head, but the forehead, ears, and nose are more detailed. Harry looks at it for a long time before folding it again and tucking everything back into his pocket.

Instead of heading home, he leaves the road before the fork leading to the old mill, and strolls down a small stone pathway half covered with twigs. He ducks into the shadows of the large weeping willow that hides a whole side of the Grangers’ house from view, and a second later, emerges into the sunlit garden out back. Hermione is sitting there when he arrives, as he knew she would, near a small patch of wildflowers. She is wearing a dark blue dress today, and her hair is elegantly tied back, as always.

“Have you heard about the Longbottom estate?” she asks before he even reaches her, looking up from the book in her lap.

“That is _all_ I’ve been hearing about.”

She laughs at the pained look on his face. “Your mother must be very rejoiced.”

Harry stops next to her, looking down with narrowed eyes. “Quite the understatement. Mr Longbottom is already considered the rightful property of my sister.”

“Is that so?”

He nods solemnly. “It is a truth, universally acknowledged, it seems, that a single man in possession of a good fortune _must_ be in want of a wife.”

“It certainly seems so,” she adds with laughter in her voice, snapping her book shut. “And the feelings or views of such a man are entirely inconsequential.”

Sighing heavily, but with a smile on his face, Harry plops down on the grass beside her.

“And what does your sister think of it?” Hermione asks.

He groans. “Impossible to know. She has yet to develop the capacity to express opinions.”

Hermione frowns, shaking her head. “You’re much too severe in her regard. Think what it must be like for her.”

“What? To be beautiful and adored and the pride of our family? It must be dreadful, yes.”

“No, to have your mother constantly trying to give her away to every wealthy man who comes along, with no consideration to her position on the matter,” she says dryly. “You don’t know what being a woman is like.”

He laughs, not entirely sincerely. “Because being an Omega is much easier, yes.”

“You’re still a man.”

“Some might disagree.”

They fall silent. For a moment, Harry thinks she might continue, berate him, contradict him, but she does not speak. She only takes his hand and holds it awhile before letting it go.

Sighing, he removes the small tome from his waistcoat pocket and hands it to her. “I wanted to return this before my mother catches sight of it.”

Hermione grins, taking the book and setting it aside with the one she had been reading. “Surely her poor nerves could not stand it.”

“It would be _absolutely_ unbecoming for a young man in my situation to indulge in such distasteful reading,” he tells her, feigning offence.

“How did you find it?”

Harry shrugs, curling a long blade of grass around his finger. “Same as the others. Well written, although full of unrealistic expectations. The ending is disappointing as well. Why is there never anything past the proposal? It’s almost as though people stop existing once they are expected to marry. Is that what marriage is? The end of meaningful existence?”

Hermione laughs then hums thoughtfully. “Bagshot herself never married. I think she might be afraid to write of things she knows nothing about.”

Harry scoffs. “And yet she clearly knows nothing of Omegas or their feelings, nor of Alphas and their true behaviour towards them. That doesn’t stop her from writing about it. If there is but one man in existence even _remotely_ similar to Count Gregory–”

“Those books are fiction, Harry,” Hermione says, her voice soft. “They are meant as a distraction, not as a reflection of reality.”

He simply nods, looking at the place where the sunlight disappears in the shadow of the trees.

Hermione fetches a small book from where it was half hidden under her dress, and she hands it to him. “Make absolutely certain your mother does _not_ catch sight of this one,” she whispers. “It would bring upon her sudden death.”

Harry takes it, reads the title, and represses a blush. _Salacious Sentiments_. The name of the author is unfamiliar. “Gilderoy Lockhart?” he asks curiously.

“I had to go behind my father’s back to get this,” Hermione explains. “Lockhart is an Alpha, though not very well regarded in literary circles. From what I heard, this book is very vivid. It’s causing quite a stir in London. I thought you might enjoy it. Or if not, enjoy criticising it at least. Happy birthday,” she finishes, grinning.

Harry chuckles, slipping the book safely into his pocket. “Thank you.”

“Were you just in town?” she asks casually, brushing absently at her dress.

“Yes. I bought paper. And there was a letter from Charlie.”

“Oh, how is he?”

“In bed still, but he says the wound is getting better and the nurses are taking good care of him. He says they bathe him often.”

“I’m certain they do,” Hermione mumbles, a light blush spreading on her cheeks. “Any news from Ron?” she asks after a long pause.

Harry shakes his head. “None. You know he’s never been very fond of writing,” he adds when she looks away in an effort to hide her disappointment. “Perhaps _you_ should send him–”

“I don’t see why I should,” she interrupts somewhat dryly, brushing at her dress again, as if to sweep away dust or brambles, but the fabric is immaculate. “I have absolutely nothing to say to him. And in any case, I expect he would be much too preoccupied to reply if I _were_ to write to him, so why should I waste my time doing that?”

Harry sighs. “You don’t _have_ to have something particular to say to write to someone. I think if he were to receive a letter from you–”

“I _don’t_ want to write to him.”

“Very well,” he says softly, deciding not to press the issue.

A long moment passes, and still Hermione remains silent. She is tense, sitting upright and looking away from him, defensive, staring into nothing. In these moments, he can never find the words to reach her, knowing too well that whatever he says will be met with a sharp rebuttal or a condescending reply. Sighing, he stands, brushing the grass from his trousers before picking up the parcel of wrapped-up paper from the ground and tucking it back under his arm.

“I should go,” he announces. “My mother will want news from Charlie.”

Hermione looks up, almost apologetically. “Have a good day then,” she says softly.

“Thank you for the book. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow,” Harry adds before leaving, ducking again under the willow and emerging onto the road leading home.

He knows why Hermione is behaving this way. She has surely heard the rumours, as he himself has, that his brother is often seen walking around London with a pretty young lady on his arm. The daughter of a successful banker, Fred confirmed in his last letter. A certain Miss Brown, who wears lacy gloves, carries an umbrella, and has a grating laugh. Ron invited her to the theatre once, where he proceeded to introduce her to his brothers, and the twins attest they are not eager to repeat the encounter. They affirm that she is, however, strikingly pretty. Knowing Ron as he does, Harry believes it might just be the only reason he tolerates her. As much as he loves his brother, Ron can be a complete loon sometimes. _Often_ , to say the truth.

Hermione _must_ have heard about all that. Through her father, who often travels to London, or through whichever of the numerous rumourmongers one can stumble on in town. She wants to ask him about it, Harry knows this with certainty, but Hermione has too much pride to question him on the matter. And he fears if he brings up the subject himself, he will end up upsetting her. Yes, it would do nothing but twist the knife in her wound. She cares deeply about Ron, always has, even when they were children, no matter how much they bickered, and it has always been obvious to Harry. He suspects Ron might feel just as strongly for her, perhaps even more so, but where Hermione is proud, Ron is incredibly stubborn. They are completely hopeless, the two of them.

When he passes the Lovegoods’ house, Luna is outside, kneeling in the long weeds. Her dress is wet with patches of dew, her hair tied back in a messy blonde braid, and she wears an incredibly large straw hat tied under her chin with a blue ribbon. She is digging vigorously in the earth with a small shovel.

“Good morning!” Harry calls out to her.

She interrupts her work to look at him, and at once her face displays this sort of absent but kind smile that she constantly wears.

“Good morning, Harry,” she says softly, barely raising her voice, but the surroundings are quiet enough that he hears her perfectly. “I dreamt of you some nights ago. You were walking through the fields during a lightning storm.”

Harry nods thoughtfully, amused but also deeply intrigued, as he always is when talking to Luna. “What does it mean?”

She wipes her forehead with a gloved hand, leaving a smear of dirt on her face. “I don’t quite know. But lightning is beautiful, don’t you think? It illuminates what otherwise would remain darkness. Most people are afraid of it, but they should not be. You should not be afraid, Harry.”

Harry looks away from her piercing, insistent gaze, almost intimidated now. “I will try not to be,” he promises softly before walking away in the direction of home.

The sun is warm on his back, almost unbearable even at the early hour, and it makes Harry long for the shade of his tree, for the safety it provides. Sunlight, more so than lightning, illuminates, but Harry has always felt safer in the darkness, hidden, unseen. _You should not be afraid, Harry_.

Harry’s fear is like a shadow that follows him. He is not always aware of it, but it is constantly there, attached. Like a shadow, it most often surfaces in the light of day. It becomes defined under the beating sun, and it retreats again at night, when he is safely tucked into the darkness. Harry’s fear is hard to define. It comprises of things that often contradict one another. He is afraid of being ignored, but also of being noticed. He is afraid of being alone but terrified of belonging to someone.

He has never mentioned it to Luna – they are not so close that he would be incited to explain to her how he feels – but she is strange and perceptive in this way. He has never even talked to Hermione about it, and yet he confides in her thoughts he would never share with anyone else. The closest he has come to expressing this fear is when voicing certain doubts to his brother Charlie, in the form of quiet murmurs when they are alone, when Harry feels particularly doleful. Luna does not need to be told things to notice them. It has always been so, even when they were children. Or perhaps Harry is giving her credit where it is not veritably due. Perhaps one does not need to be particularly insightful to notice this fear, perhaps it is obvious in spite of how hard he tries to hide it. Perhaps this instinct – to fear others and crave them all at once – is proper to Omegas and goes hand in hand with their situation. But Harry would not know – he has never met another.

Sometimes he wonders if there _are_ even other Omegas, or if it is only him. _They are more common in the city_ , his brother George once assured him. _Though you wouldn’t want to meet them_ , he quickly added when Fred shot him a warning glance, before changing the subject. Although he does not know why his brothers would lie about something like that, Harry is dubious. But yet again, how _could_ he know? He has never been to London.

If Harry has never met another Omega, he has however had the opportunity of meeting quite a few Alphas, though the experience has not always been pleasant. Generally, one man out of five is an Alpha, he had learned years ago from one of his tutors. Since then, every time he finds himself in a crowded room, Harry tries to pick them out and verify the count. His two older brothers are Alphas, and though he has never been particularly close to Bill – who is ten years older and married and has left home a long time ago – Charlie is one of the most important people in Harry’s life. Harry’s cousin John, his uncle Fabian’s son, is also an Alpha, though Harry hasn’t seen him in many years, since he left England to pursue his studies abroad. Barnabus Prewett, his grandfather on his mother’s side, is an Alpha, as well as his twin brother Ignatius. His mother’s elder brother Bilius was also an Alpha, though he died of a grave illness when Harry was very young. The Prewetts have always prided themselves in the considerable number of Alphas in their lineage, but as far as Harry knows, there hasn’t been an Omega for several generations. The Weasleys, on the other hand, are all Betas, as far as anyone can remember. And all redheads. Except for Harry, of course.

There are a few Alphas in town as well. There is old Tom, who runs one of the pubs – the dingy one. There is Mr Diggory, whose farm is not very far from the Burrow, and whose son Cedric, also an Alpha, was Harry’s favourite tutor when he was younger. There is Mr Burkes, a shop owner in the town centre, but Harry avoids him carefully, uncomfortable under his leering glances. Then there is the mayor, Mr McLaggen, and his own son, Cormac, an obnoxious and sniggering young man that Harry absolutely despises. There are others as well. Harry has counted approximately thirty, depending on the time of year. Out of the two hundred or so residents of the town, it is under the general ratio of one man out of five. But still, it seems far too large a number to be fair.

Hagrid is outside, tending to a wobbly wheel on the coach, when Harry returns. If there is one man in town who would easily be mistaken for an Alpha, Hagrid is it. He is the tallest and broadest man Harry has ever met, with hands the size of plates and a face half hidden by a thick, unkempt beard. When Harry was younger, the twins told him that Hagrid was half-giant, and Harry, who was a naïve and imaginative child, had long been convinced of it. When asked, Hagrid had played along, telling Harry that his mother had been a giantess and his father a human man, and that he even had a fully giant half-brother somewhere, whom he would send for if anyone was ever mean to Harry. In spite of appearances, Hagrid is a Beta, gentle and kind-hearted, but none of the town boys have ever tried to steal a hen from the Burrow for fear of suffering his wrath.

“Need any help?” Harry asks, as Hagrid lifts a whole side of the carriage without breaking a sweat.

Hagrid laughs, loudly and heartily. “Think I’ll manage jus’ fine, but thank yeh fer askin'!” he says, finally pushing the wheel into place before dropping his charge back onto the ground. The whole coach rattles and shivers. “Any news from yer brothers?”

“Charlie. He’s better. He says he isn’t in a lot of pain anymore, and that the food is good, but he misses his horse,” Harry summarises.

“He’s a brave lad, Charlie,” Hagrid remarks, nodding, as he wipes his hands on a rag. “A brave, brave lad.”

“Yes, he truly is,” Harry says softly before hurrying into the house. He hopes Hagrid has forgotten about his birthday and fears that, if he has not, being in his presence too long might remind him. Though Hagrid was the one who gifted him with Hedwig years ago, when Harry was still a boy with scraped knees and the cat a skinny and trembling little thing found in the underbrush, he has not been very good at gift-giving since then. Harry was presented last year with little chocolate cakes Hagrid was proud to say he had baked himself, but that were hard as rock and uncommonly salty.

The house is silent now, almost eerily so after the chaos of breakfast. Ginny must be sewing in her room, for she is nowhere to be seen in the drawing room or in the parlour. There is no sign of his mother either, or of his father. Harry stops for a moment, listening to the silence. Until a few years ago, such quietness never occurred at the Burrow. Harry would wake in the morning to bursts of laughter from the twins or loud whining from Ron because they had put some sort of large insect or small reptile in his bedsheets. Or he would come home in the afternoon only to be greeted by a berating Percy, who ceaselessly criticised him on his walking about without a chaperone. And there was always something interesting happening before Charlie left, be it a game of pall-mall or battledore and shuttlecock in the yard, or some other activity that often resulted in one or more of them getting hurt.

They are all gone now. The house is empty and still, and Harry is on his own. Percy is in London, settled into a tiny little flat crammed with books – which their mother calls _absolutely_ _abysmal_ but which Harry imagines must be quite wonderful – and is studying diligently day and night to become a barrister. Fred and George are boarding somewhere in Islington, and Harry pities their landlord and the constant trouble the old man must have to deal with. They spend their days writing and putting together ridiculously offensive plays featured at Sadler’s Wells many nights a week. Ron is now in London as well, living with their uncle Fabian and, against all odds, studying medicine. Ron – who has never in his life been the least bit inclined towards books or learning, and who finds a great many things repulsive – is the last person any of them would have expected to choose such a career path. Harry suspects he is only doing this to impress Hermione – or more precisely, Hermione’s father. That is the only plausible explanation Harry can come up with.

On some days, Harry appreciates this stillness, but on others, it weighs heavy, and he finds himself longing for the chaos of the old days. For the laughter and the games and the company. How he longs to be in London as well, where life seems exciting and so refined. To wander the parks and walk along the Thames and visit the British Museum. To see all the people and the bustle of the streets, to visit the shops and see the plays. _You shouldn’t let it grow inside your head too much or you’ll be disappointed_ , Charlie warned him once. _London is very dirty, and frankly, the smell is quite terrible_. But even the dirt and the stink cannot hinder Harry’s imagination. Sometimes he wonders if the smell is bad enough that it would cover people’s scents. Could it cover his own and allow him to hide in the crowd, unseen, unnoticed, unjudged?

He retreats into his bedroom, where he finds Hedwig sprawled lazily in the middle of the floor, licking at her white fur. The bed has been properly made, and from the pile of neatly folded clothes on the old armchair, Poppy has been in to tidy up the room. Harry groans at the sight, dropping the newly purchased paper on his desk, before noticing a small bundle, delicately wrapped with a white ribbon, near his inkpot. Frowning, he plops down on his chair to open it. On top of the parcel is a piece of fabric that reveals itself to be a handkerchief. It is beautifully handmade, with his initials elaborately embroidered in a corner in golden thread, and the edges ornated with a multitude of small stars. Harry smiles, touching the soft linen, tracing the gold with his fingertips. Silk thread.

“Ginny,” he whispers in awe, wondering how long she has been working on this, and immediately feeling guilty for demeaning her to Hermione this morning.

The other item is a large piece of pound cake wrapped in paper. It is his favourite treat, and Winky’s recipe is divine, but he left in a hurry this morning before it was served.

“Am I a horrible person?” he asks Hedwig, breaking off a piece of the cake and stuffing it into his mouth. The cat interrupts her toilet for a second to stare at him and he laughs, imagining her expression as a judgmental glare.

Harry takes the letter out of his pocket and carefully puts it away with all the others in Charlie’s pile. Then he tucks the drawing under a thick, heavy book in an effort to smooth out the creases. He will leave it there overnight and tomorrow hang it on the nearby wall, next to Charlie’s beautiful portrait of Hedwig.

He stands and stretches, wondering if he should head back to his tree for some quiet reading, then decides he feels too lazy at the moment to walk all the way there. He kicks off his shoes and removes his waistcoat before settling sideways onto his bed with the new book, his back pressed to the wall and legs crossed. Hedwig scurries over at once and curls up next to his foot, purring loudly and rubbing her face on his toes. The book is not very long, and Harry is a fast reader. This should only take a few hours. Comfortable and happy, enjoying the quiet house, Harry turns the first page.

The story is set in Venice, and the reader is rapidly introduced to the protagonist, a young Omega named Lorenzo Chiappa. Lorenzo is described as petite and graceful with an angelic face and dainty thighs that an Alpha could easily wrap a whole hand around.

Harry scoffs, interrupting his reading to shake his head at the ridiculousness. Then he looks down at his own thigh for a moment, wondering. It is thin, yes, but… not _dainty_. Harry hates this stupid word. Every one of these writers always seem to feel the need to abuse of it. Omegas are always beautiful and delicate and _dainty_. Always dainty hands, dainty feet. And now dainty thighs? Harry scoffs again. And surely that is not possible. A whole hand? No, surely not! Alphas have big hands, yes, but… Or do they? Harry has never really paid attention to that… When he lifts his gaze and catches his reflection in the mirror across the room, he sees that he is blushing.

Lorenzo is the youngest son of an immensely wealthy family. His father is a marquis of some sort and has arranged for Lorenzo to marry a nobleman, a certain Vittorio, who is described as a plain and, if not disagreeable, quite monotonous Beta. Lorenzo dreads the engagement and constantly tries to dissuade his father, insisting that he does not like Vittorio, that he is not ready to marry yet. Or to mate. At eighteen years old, though Lorenzo is of age, he has yet to experience his first heat.

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. He feels a surge of anger at first, towards Hermione. Is this why she has given him the book? Is this some sort of attempt to embarrass him? But then he reminds himself that she mentioned she had not read it, only heard rumours. And Hermione would never do something like this. It is not in her nature to be cruel. He lets out the breath he has been holding. He does not need to look in the mirror this time to know that he is blushing.

At eighteen, it is considered odd for Lorenzo not to have mated yet. And particularly to not have had his first heat. Harry is twenty now, two years older than the character, but he has not had _his_ either. Usually, it happens when an Omega is fifteen or sixteen, or even sooner for some. And once the cycle has started, the heats are supposed to come regularly every ninety days or so. They last three or four days on average, but this can vary depending on the Omega, on the state of his health. They are apparently shorter if spent with a partner, and even shorter still if said partner is an Alpha. A mated Omega’s heats will be much briefer and less painful the longer he has been with his Alpha. And they will stop altogether while he is pregnant, of course. But if an Omega remains unmated, the heats will grow in intensity to a point where they can start damaging his health and cause other illnesses.

This is all hearsay, of course. Harry might read a lot, but not about this particular subject. No novel goes on at length about it, and it is not a topic people are generally open to discussing. He would like to know more, perhaps, to understand why he is different, but he does not seek out the answers, does not know how to. There is the curious, inquisitive part of him that wants to know, but there is the other one, the fearful one, that wants to remain ignorant of everything, that wants to remain safe from it all.

One night, only a few days before Lorenzo is set to marry Vittorio, he is awakened in the middle of the night by a hand pressed to his mouth and someone dragging him from his bed. He tries to scream and fight off his attacker but hits his head and falls unconscious. He later wakes to find he is locked inside what looks like a dilapidated house. When his calls for help remain unanswered, Lorenzo resorts to cowering in a corner, shaking with fear, as he waits for what might happen next. Hours pass before his captor finally reveals himself. He is, quite predictably, an Alpha.

The man is first described as formidably massive and towering over poor Lorenzo, his arms bulky with muscles underneath a half-unbuttoned shirt and a dusty-looking coat. He possesses an impressive jaw and intensely dark eyes set in a constant frown and he treats Lorenzo quite rudely, telling him no one will hear him call for help and that if he escapes, he will get lost in the woods and attacked by wild animals. He insists that if Lorenzo were clever, he would keep quiet and do what he is told. Lorenzo does not dare disobey for fear that the stranger will hurt him. He has never been alone with an Alpha before.

Harry is completely lost in the story at this point, imagining what it would be like to find himself trapped as Lorenzo is, alone with a strange man. With an Alpha. Never, in all the books Harry has read until now, has an Omega been in such an alarming situation. Bagshot’s writings could easily be summarised as a succession of chaperoned social outings and formal courtships that Harry has come to regard as quite dull, to be perfectly honest. Each of her stories seems constructed more or less the same, with obstacles that are but snags in an otherwise peaceful and mundane existence, and Harry is never very surprised by any development or revelation. It is peaceful reading, perfectly suited to being performed in the shade of his tree, surrounded by sunlight and tranquillity. But he finds he is gripping Lockhart’s book quite tightly, waiting to discover why the strange man has seen fit to capture Lorenzo, and what he means to do to him.

Time passes. Lorenzo is alone in the small house for most of the day, with nothing to do but stare at the surrounding forest through the small cracks in the boarded-up windows. At night, he sleeps alone in the only bed, with the stranger curled up on a cot near the fireplace. When it seems that the Alpha is unlikely to harm him, Lorenzo begins to try and talk to him in the evenings. He discovers, through polite prompting, that the man’s name is Riccardo, and that he means to ask Lorenzo’s father for a large amount of money in exchange for returning his son. He insinuates that the marquis has wronged him in the past, though he refuses to explain how and turns angry when Lorenzo gets too insistent. The revelation of Riccardo’s plan renews Lorenzo’s fears, though this time his dread is of a different kind. His father is a greedy man, not one to waste his precious fortune on his youngest son, for whom he bears little affection. He is terrified at the thought that the marquis might simply refuse to pay the ransom, uncaring of what might happen to him. But most of all, he fears that Riccardo, if his plan proves unsuccessful, might hurt him in a feat of anger.

Lorenzo counts the days. It is on the sixth that the unthinkable happens. He wakes up feeling sick and feverish, to Riccardo pacing in the small house, muttering under his breath and looking very distressed. When Lorenzo pleads to see a doctor, Riccardo snaps at him to be quiet, that he is not sick. Lorenzo is then informed, almost accusingly, that he is going into heat. But that is not the worst of it. His scent is rapidly triggering Riccardo’s rut. Soon, Riccardo announces, regardless of what they might feel now, they will _need_ to mate.

Harry’s hands are sweaty as he turns the pages now, reading the words with increasing swiftness. Never before has something of the sort been written. To his knowledge, at least. Is this what Hermione meant by the book being _vivid_? Surely Riccardo will come to his senses and take his leave while he can still control his urges. Surely Lorenzo will not let this brutish man anywhere near him, even as feverish as he might become.

Riccardo does not leave. And soon, though embarrassed and afraid, Lorenzo is so enthralled by the scent of the Alpha that he begs and pleads to be touched. The bedsheets, as well as his clothes, are soaked with slick.

Harry swallows, breathing shakily, his face warming up with such embarrassment as he has never felt before this day. And still, his eyes take in every word avidly, fearfully.

Red-faced and breathing hard, Riccardo removes his breeches. The book then proceeds to describe his Alpha _prick_ – Harry nearly chokes at the word – as a thick and tumescent member with a knot, already swelling, as large as Lorenzo’s fist. Though brutish and half-crazed from his rut, Riccardo is almost gentle as he undresses the Omega. But then he positions Lorenzo obscenely on the bed and proceeds to lick at his body in a most animalistic way, muttering how delicious he tastes, how perfect he is, before climbing on top of him. Riccardo tells him that it won’t hurt, that his body is made for this, _only_ for this. And when he is finally penetrated, Lorenzo cries out in bliss, begging for more, pleading for Riccardo’s knot, claiming he will die without it–

Harry snaps the book shut and throws it across the room as if burned, startling Hedwig, who jumps up and hisses at him before taking off and disappearing down the stairs. 

He curls up on the bed, taking deep breaths, watching small particles of dust float around in a ray of sunlight. _Those books are fiction_ , he remembers Hermione saying, _not a reflection of reality_. Yes, it is not real, just a story. That cannot _possibly_ be what being in heat is like. Harry refuses to believe it. He cannot imagine losing control that way, begging for that sort of thing. He cannot imagine an Alpha doing those things to him… touching him… _licking_ him. God, no! Harry will never let _anyone_ touch him like that. He will fight and yell and claw a man’s eyes out before he lets this happen to him. It _cannot_ be this way. No, the world cannot be so cruel as to be this way…

Harry does not do much for the rest of the day. He cannot find the energy nor the will to do anything or to go anywhere. Later in the afternoon, he realises that he needs to hide this book so that no one else ever sees it or discovers that he has read any of it. He fetches it and hides it beneath the loose floorboard under the bed, where he would hide little treasures when he was a boy – a nice shiny rock he found in the river, a little soldier figurine Charlie has given him. The book will be safe there, forgotten. Out of sight, and hopefully, out of mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Originally, in the books, the Burrow is located in Ottery St Catchpole, which is in Devon, and Hogsmeade is in Scotland, but I decided to keep the county from _Pride and Prejudice_ , Hertfordshire, mainly because of its proximity to London.
> 
> \- The story starts in the summer of 1814, during a period of peace in the Napoleonic Wars. Napoleon having retreated in April, Charlie should have returned home a few months ago if he had not been wounded. This is what Mr Ollivander is inquiring about.
> 
> \- Paper during the Regency was sometimes sold as very large sheets commonly called _foolscap_ that had to be cut to be usable as letter paper, for example. The typical format for writing letters on was called _quarto_ , a quarter of the big sheet, similar in size to A4, and was folded into a sort of leaflet and written on all sides except one, which was left empty and served as the outside of the envelope once the paper was folded, and where the address was written. Smaller sheets of better quality or ready to use paper could also be purchased, which is what Harry treats himself to in this chapter. There will be a lot of letter writing, so I thought I’d babble away about this early on.
> 
> \- Astley’s Amphitheatre in London, where Charlie has promised to take Harry, is considered one of the first circuses and mostly featured horse tricks and clown shows.
> 
> \- _Zastrozzi_ is a novel by Percy Bysshe Shelley published in 1810, but which he wrote when he was only seventeen. It is the story of a villainous man on a quest to seek revenge against his half-brother.
> 
> - _Pall-mall_ is the old name for croquet, and _battledore and shuttlecock_ is the ancestor of badminton.
> 
> \- For Lockhart’s novel, I’ve used a common trend in authors if the era, of setting the scene in Italy or giving the characters Italian names, or both. Ann Radcliffe did it, and so did Shelley in the book I’ve already mentioned.


	2. tolerable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredible comments and enthusiasm this fic has received so far! I am having such a great time writing this!
> 
> Here is chapter 2 at last. I hope you will all enjoy it and that it won’t disappoint. Don’t be afraid to leave a comment, they are my creation fuel.
> 
> I am liladiurne on Tumblr. Feel free to visit me there.

* * *

  
**\- 2 -**

**tolerable**

* * *

TOLERABLE, a. [ _tolérable_ , Fr. _tolerabilis_ , Lat.]

  1. Supportable; that may be endured or supported.
  2. Not excellent; not contemptible; passable.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

_Hogsmeade_   
_2 August 1814_

_Dear Charlie,_

_I received your letter on my very birthday, and your drawing of Thaddeus is now hanging in my bedroom next to the other one. I suspect Hedwig might now be quite jealous. I am ever so glad to learn that you are better and am counting the days until you are well enough to come home. How I wish I could travel to France and be by your side, but I know Father would never agree and I dare not ask. Since I am not even to visit London, surely Toulouse would be unacceptable. The days here are long and quiet as well, and I miss everyone, even Percy, as ridiculous as it may sound. I have been reading quite a lot to pass the time, ordering books from the shop in town or borrowing from Hermione. The one I am sending you I had forgotten about but found again while looking through the old trunk in my bedroom. It begins with a man being crushed to death by a giant helmet that falls from the sky. I think you might enjoy it a great deal._

_Ginny has made me a beautiful handkerchief for my birthday, embroidered with my initials, and this morning I received a very fine copy of Hamlet from Percy. I am eager to start reading it. I can see you shake your head and hear you say that I have already read it a hundred times before, but to this I remind you that one can never get enough of something they truly love. A letter also arrived yesterday from the twins, who included a manuscript of their latest play, which I was fortunate enough to be the first to read. It is absolutely distasteful and hilarious, and I made sure to destroy it after I was finished, as per Fred’s request, so that Mamma never sets eyes on it. Father came down the stairs in the middle of the night while I was burning it, and he yelped and clutched at his chest at the sight of me crouching near the fireplace in the darkness. However, I doubt Mamma would be tempted to read it even if I had left it in plain view on the dining room table or pinned it to the wall in the parlour. For two days now she has been preoccupied by the return of the Longbottom heir. It is all everyone in town has been talking about. He is rumoured to be quite wealthy and Mamma is convinced he will fall in love with Ginny and inevitably want to marry her. She has been pestering Father endlessly to visit, and he keeps refusing her, but he left quite early this morning, for this precise reason, I suspect._

_Ron has still not written. I think perhaps his studies are not going as well as he expected, and he might be reluctant to admit this, so he resorts to sending no news at all. The twins say he now has a lady friend that he takes to the theatre, and that she is beautiful but empty-headed. In doing such things – in refusing to write and in prancing about with this girl – he makes Hermione positively miserable. She constantly asks me for news and is upset when there are none, yet she refuses to write to him herself. I don’t know which of the two of them is the most stubborn._

_I miss you terribly. Please be well soon and come home._

_Love,_   
_Harry_

Harry sets the quill down and stretches his neck and shoulders, yawning widely. He has been sitting here for hours now and it must be time for supper soon, judging from the darkening sky outside and the way his stomach has started growling. He massages his hand thoroughly, reminding himself to get a new quill. This one’s life has definitely run its course. He might just give Hedwig what remains of it – she _loves_ chewing on those, so much so that she jumps on the desk every time he takes one out of his writing box, intent on attacking it viciously. Three times he had to push her away tonight – dead set as she always is on being the sole object of his attention and on destroying his quill – lest she smears his letter, and her own fur, in black ink.

“Are you still sulking?” he asks, turning to where she is lying on the bed, her back to him, licking at her paws and evidently ignoring him still.

He shakes his head and pours a little pounce on the letter to dry the ink, impatient to be finished with all this and get something to eat. Charlie’s is the third letter he has written tonight. Two others, already folded and sealed, are ready to be sent – one addressed to Percy and the other to Fred and George. The book he means to include with Charlie’s letter is wrapped and ready as well. Yes, Harry decides, he will purchase a new quill tomorrow after he stops at the postal counter. Maybe a crow one for a change, he muses. Once the letter is all dry and clean, he folds it carefully and seals it with wax just as the bell announces supper.

Supper at The Burrow is usually quite a noisy affair, even with most of Harry’s siblings gone, but the air has been tense of late, what with Mr Weasley still refusing to visit the Longbottom estate and thus leaving his wife with no way to secure Ginny’s position. Having realised that all her pestering would prove inefficient, Harry’s mother has resolved to silently pursing her lips and alternately glaring at her husband or completely ignoring him. Harry’s father seems perfectly at ease with this and is serenely piling roasted potatoes onto his plate when Harry enters the dining room. His mother is seated at the opposite end of the table, having had her covers moved as far away from him as possible. Ginny seems to be appreciating this silence as well and is almost smiling as she sits in her usual spot and helps herself to some chicken. Harry takes the seat next to his father and starts serving himself eagerly. He has a feeling his mother’s vow of silence will not last long and he aims to enjoy it.

“I’m sending Charlie _The Castle of Otranto_ ,” Harry informs his father as he reaches for the dish of potatoes.

“Oh, good choice. A positively terrifying read.”

“Yes, I think he might enjoy it.”

Mr Weasley chuckles, shaking his head. “I cannot imagine how terribly long he must be finding his time in the hospital if he has resorted to begging you for books.”

Charlie has never been a very assiduous reader, and Harry is all the more rejoiced that after years of trying to pass onto him his own love of books, his brother finally seems to find pleasure in them. “He says the nurses keep him company when they are not too busy.”

Mrs Weasley makes a noise at that, but otherwise keeps silent as she viciously attacks a piece of chicken. Harry shares a brief look with his father, both holding back their laughter.

“I wonder if he will return with a French bride like our Bill,” Mr Weasley muses before biting into a carrot.

Once more, Mrs Weasley makes a brief, choked up noise in the back of her throat, and the knife she is holding scrapes loudly against her plate.

“I think what Mamma means to say is that Fleur is quite enough for us,” Harry remarks.

Mr Weasley nods solemnly. “And I agree with her wholeheartedly.”

“She is not so bad,” Ginny says softly, but Harry looks up and they share a grin at the irony of her statement.

What follows is a perfectly pleasant meal, with Harry and his father sharing a good conversation and Ginny occasionally intervening, but mostly content to listen and to laugh at their stories. Mrs Weasley remains in her brooding silence throughout, only making the occasional offended or disinterested sound to remind them of her presence. Mr Weasley tells Harry a funny story he heard from Dr Granger the night before about Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope, and by the time dessert is served, they are somehow explaining the plot of _Gulliver’s Travels,_ Mr Weasley’s favourite book, to Ginny, who has never read it. Harry has never before been able to have such an intellectual discussion with his father at the table. And it has never happened, in the history of suppers at The Burrow, that an entire meal has remained uninterrupted by Molly Weasley’s famous gossiping.

After supper, everyone retires into the parlour as usual, Harry with his new copy of _Hamlet_ and his father with this week’s _Examiner_. Ginny is putting the finishing touches on a shawl she has been embroidering for weeks now, and Mrs Weasley is simply sitting there fuming, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Harry throws brief glances her way over his book, wondering how much longer she can hold her silence. He is most impressed at her resilience so far, but she will surely explode any moment now.

“That looks beautiful, Ginny,” Mr Weasley says, taking a look at his daughter’s work. “I think Mr Longbottom will like it.”

Even though he has been expecting it, Harry startles when his mother suddenly exclaims, her voice shrill and irritated, “ _How_ can we _possibly_ know what Mr Longbottom might like or dislike _when we_ _cannot visit_?”

Harry turns to his father, but it is impossible to see his reaction, for Mr Weasley is hidden once more behind his reading. From the way the paper trembles slightly, however, he knows the man is shaking with laughter. If Harry already had suspicions regarding his father’s morning visit to Mr Longbottom, this behaviour only confirms them. How long will he keep up this charade? Harry wonders. Knowing his father, it is very possible he might not tell her for another week. Harry decides he should at least try to calm his mother until the truth is revealed. This way he might be able to read in peace.

“He will be at the assembly, Mamma. Any number of people will have met him and can introduce us. Mrs McLaggen–”

His mother makes a most offended noise, shaking her head vehemently. “Oh, if you think Mrs McLaggen will have any regard towards us, you are sorely mistaken! She has this niece of hers to marry. And she is such a hypocritical woman! I don’t believe a single kind word she says!”

Harry sighs heavily. “You said Mr Lovegood would visit–”

“Oh, Mr Lovegood will do no such thing!” his mother interrupts at once. “He has a daughter of his own to marry, after all. And he is a strange, changeable man! I have no opinion of him!”

Harry sighs again. “Then I’m certain Hermione’s father will visit him and then introduce us at the assembly,” he says, hoping to put an end to this argument.

“And _when_ is the ball, Harry dear?” his mother insists.

“On Friday.”

“Yes! On Friday! And Dr Granger will only return from London the day before that! Isn’t that what you said at supper, Arthur?”

“It is,” Mr Weasley says from behind his paper.

“Then it will be _impossible_ for him to introduce us, for he will not know Mr Longbottom himself!” she declares desperately.

“Then perhaps _you_ can introduce Mr Longbottom to him,” her husband suggests.

“Oh, stop teasing me such!” she shrieks. “As we do not _know_ Mr Longbottom, how could that be possible? Oh, and _stop_ sighing, Harry! How you irritate my poor nerves!”

Mr Weasley puts his paper down to regard his wife with a kind stare. “Pardon me, my dear. I understand your feelings. One cannot _really_ know a man simply by having only met him for a few days. I agree with you. Perhaps we should leave Mrs McLaggen to do the introductions then, since she has known him longer. Although since we are more familiar with the Grangers, it would be better for one of us to do so. They will think it a kindness, I believe. But if _you_ have no desire to, I will take it on myself, Molly.”

Harry’s mother is silent for a moment, frowning at her husband. “Nonsense!” she finally exclaims, equally irritated and confused.

“Nonsense, is it?” Mr Weasley asks, feigning confusion as well, and Harry cannot help but grin at his father’s games. “How so? Do you now consider the proper forms of introduction as nonsense?”

“ _I_ certainly do,” Harry intervenes, putting his book down, knowing this subject never fails to vex his mother. “I will _never_ understand why everyone insists on all those rules. Wouldn’t it be easier if one could just walk up to people they want to be introduced to and introduce themselves instead of waiting for someone else to do it for them? I find this completely unnecessary and tedious,” he finishes boldly.

As expected, Harry’s mother gapes at him as if he has just insulted her directly. “Shut your mouth!” she hisses. “The window is open! Someone might hear you!”

Harry’s father laughs loudly at this. “And who will hear him at this hour? The hens in the yard? Let the boy speak when we are amongst ourselves, my dear,” he says gently. “I quite agree. It would be much simpler indeed. Wouldn’t your poor nerves find some relief in this? If it were so, you would be able to go directly to Mr Longbottom–”

“Oh, I _beg_ you, stop talking about him at once! I am sick of Mr Longbottom!” Mrs Weasley declares with finality.

Her husband regards her silently for a time, then winces, shaking his head. “I am sorry to hear that, but why did you not tell me sooner? If I had known this morning, I certainly would not have visited him. This is very unlucky indeed, but I’m afraid we can’t escape the acquaintance now.”

It takes a moment for Mrs Weasley to fully comprehend her husband’s offhanded statement, but then, all of a sudden, it is like a storm has entered the house. She is standing and rushing about the room with uncontained joy.

“Oh, oh! How _good_ of you! How good of you, my dear, _dear_ Arthur!” she shrieks. “I _knew_ I would persuade you at last! _I knew!_ How certain I was that you love your daughter too well not to visit! How pleased I am! How playful you are, to go all day without telling me! Never one word! How playful you are!”

“Now, Harry,” his father declares, “I believe you may sigh as much as you want.”

“Oh, what an excellent father you have, children! Oh, Ginny, I dare say Mr Longbottom will dance with you at the ball! Oh, Arthur!” she gasps, hurrying over to him so fast she almost tips his armchair over. “What does he look like? Will you describe him?”

Mr Weasley frowns. “Who, my dear?”

She slaps him on the arm, but is smiling widely still, recognising his playfulness now. “Mr Longbottom! How is he? Tall, slender? Fair or dark-haired? Describe him for us!”

Mr Weasley looks surprised, then frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t quite remember. Tall, I believe he was. But not overly so. Although it all depends on what you consider to be tall,” he muses. “If you consider _me_ a tall man, for example, then I believe he is tall, for he is about my height. Or is he? Was I looking up or down at him? For the life of me I cannot recall.”

Harry smirks, shaking his head while Mrs Weasley grabs her husband’s arm and shakes him eagerly, as if hoping to rattle the truth out of him. “Will you stop teasing me? Just _tell_ me what he looks like!”

“Fairly tall, then,” Mr Weasley concludes, though sounding quite uncertain of his statement. “As for his complexion... fair, if I remember correctly. Although… What _you_ would consider fair might not be what _I_ would consider fair. He is definitely not dark-haired, however. Although you might think of it as–”

“Oh, how insufferable you are to my poor nerves!” Mrs Weasley cries shrilly. “And yet I cannot find it in me to be upset with you!”

It goes much like this for the rest of the evening, until Harry tires of the commotion and retreats to his room to try and read at least a little before bed. Once settled comfortably under his blankets with a candle burning on the bedside table and Hedwig snuggled into his side, he opens the new, beautifully bound copy of _Hamlet_ , determined to immerse himself into the story. But he simply cannot manage it. His eyes fleet absently over the familiar words, unable to comprehend them, unable to follow. His thoughts stray instead to the other book, the one he has been trying in vain to forget. The one hidden under the floorboards. He tells himself it is only because he is worried about Lorenzo that he is tempted to recover the book and continue the story, and it _is_ true that he fears what might happen to the young man. But it would be lying to himself to pretend that he is not also curious about something more than the Omega’s troubles.

That last scene, the one where he left off, is haunting him. Riccardo’s rugged tenderness, his filthy praise. Lorenzo’s desperate pleas and how the author describes the ecstasy of being taken for the first time. And more than anything, it is the words that Harry cannot seem to rid himself of. They are branded into his mind, singed behind his eyelids. _A thick and tumescent member, with a knot like a fist_. The image alone terrifies him. And yet Lorenzo longs for it, cries out for it. His body is meant for this, Riccardo assures him. _Only_ for this.

Harry snuffs out the candle and settles fully under the covers, bringing them up to his chin. He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to concentrate on the sounds of the night drifting through the open window, on the reassuring warmth of Hedwig’s small body against his. He breathes steadily in and out. _These books are fiction, Harry_ , he reminds himself once again. _Meant as a distraction, not a reflection of reality_.

He has not been to see Hermione yesterday, nor today either. He knows very well that she will ask if he has started the book and what he thinks of it, and Harry is a terrible liar. He could not pretend even if he tried, particularly with Hermione. She would know the truth only by looking at his face. And so, refusing to let himself be trapped into exposing just how troubled he was – and still is – by the book, he avoids visiting her altogether. And if he must go to town, he goes even earlier than usual, when he knows there are less chances of running into her.

The problem is, he can pretend all he wants during the day, but at night, when it is silent and still like this, when Harry is alone in the darkness with his own thoughts and the constant fear fades away, it is a different matter entirely. It is easy to imagine it when there is nothing else to occupy his mind, when there are no more distractions. It is easy to wonder what it must be like to be touched… by an Alpha’s hands… prying his legs apart gently. To feel a mouth on him… a tongue…

Harry hides his face under the covers, as if there was anyone to see his blush. _Your body is made for this_ , Riccardo tells Lorenzo in the story. _Only this. This is what you are_.

“Not _me_ ,” Harry whispers into the darkness. “I am more than this.”

All night Harry has trouble sleeping, his dreams plagued by strange and unrecognisable figures. He wakes up uncommonly late the next day and breakfast is already served by the time he comes down the stairs. In no mood to suffer his mother’s enthusiastic chatter, he grabs only a quick bite before heading to town, carrying the letters and the wrapped book. He keeps his head down as he walks under the beating sun, a numb headache throbbing at his temples. This morning, he finds himself longing for the fresh breeze and the dimness of autumn, and he is eager to get his errands done so he can return to the safe darkness of his bedroom and take a long nap.

Once he has successfully deposited his mail at the post, Harry heads to the stationary shop to purchase a new quill. The owner is here today, and nods kindly in his direction when Harry enters. He smiles back politely. Mr Jones is a friend of his father’s – one of the small group of men who gather in Dr Granger’s study a few times a week to sip alcohol and discuss god knows what until late into the night. Harry takes his time, looking at the different quills, enjoying the cramped darkness and the silence of the shop. He is tired, he realises, much more than he first thought. So much so that he is unaware of someone else entering the shop until they are standing right behind him, too close to be allowed.

Someone inhales, close behind his ear, so close Harry freezes for a second. There is a gust of warm breath on his neck, from a low chuckle, before he turns swiftly, so fast that his back hits the wooden counter and the quills on display shake dangerously. He finds himself with the mayor’s son, Cormac McLaggen, looking down at him. But Harry already knew it would be him. It is _always_ him. Only Cormac would have the audacity, would be ill-mannered enough to do something like this.

“Nervous, Weasley?” he drawls, regarding Harry with his usual smirk and an unmistakable predatory glint in his eyes.

Harry is quite speechless. Not from fear but from disbelief that Cormac would have the _nerve_ to come up to him like this and _smell_ him. Yes, he has done untoward things before, and he has said improper words and thrown plenty of unwanted glances his way, but never has he done something so bold… A sort of realisation comes over Harry then, and fear twists his insides. Had Cormac been about to _scent him_?

“No need to be nervous,” Cormac continues, almost mumbling now, stepping even closer to Harry until they’re nearly touching.

“Leave me alone,” Harry manages, mortified at how weak his voice sounds even in the silent little shop. He has never been afraid of Cormac before, and he is not now either. He is more afraid of what almost happened than of the possibility that Cormac might harm him. No, Cormac would never dare. He may act all bold, but Harry recognises a coward when he sees one. He knows this from the way Cormac never approaches him if there is anyone around to see. If his friends were here to witness it, he would never be caught showing an Omega any interest. He likes cornering Harry when he is alone, trying to scare him or provoke him. But he would never go so far as to scent him. He would never be so daring as to lay claim. Would he?

“And if I don’t want to leave you alone?” He takes a step forward, his gaze clearly falling to Harry’s throat. “What will you do? What _can_ you do, Weasley?” he asks almost gently, but the light in his eyes contains no gentleness.

Harry’s breath is stuck in his throat. He is more humiliated about being completely unable to talk or even to muster a general idea of what he could possibly say than about the situation and the unwanted closeness. He watches in mute fury as Cormac takes a long, deep whiff of his scent, their faces barely centimetres apart now. He watches the nasty smirk forming on the young Alpha’s lips as he declares, to Harry’s complete and utter horror, “Not yet then? But don’t worry, _Harry_ ,” he mumbles, emphasising the name, almost growling as he says it, so close Harry feels his breath on his face. “I can wait–”

“McLaggen!” comes Mr Jones’ sharp voice and Cormac immediately leaps back in surprise. They turn to see the shop owner coming out of his backroom and rushing over to them, livid with anger. “You step away from that boy right this second or I swear to the almighty I’ll give you a basting you’ll remember!”

Cormac scoffs arrogantly, but he steps away and throws one last, intensely intimate look at Harry before leaving the shop.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Mr Jones asks, putting a gentle hand on Harry’s arm. “Shall I send for your father to come and take you home?”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Harry says, his mouth terribly dry, discreetly trying to find his breath again. “I would like to purchase this quill, please? The black one.” He turns to point at it, thus avoiding the man’s worried gaze.

“Of course, my boy. Of course. Let me wrap it for you.”

Harry waits while his parcel is prepared, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets to hide the fact that they might be trembling. How could he let Cormac sneak up on him like this? How could he let himself be so distracted? He has been so intent on avoiding Hermione these last few days that he forgot he should be aware of Cormac as well. It is like a game for him, to prey on Harry, but usually Harry avoids him well enough. This time, however, he did not even catch the Alpha’s scent until he was standing right behind him. He was either tired or preoccupied, or both. He swears to himself he will never let his guard down in such a careless way again.

This is the only part of not having had his first heat that Harry absolutely abhors, this underdeveloped sense of smell. He would not have to try so hard to tell Alphas and Betas apart otherwise. He would not have to rely on his observation skills so much, he would not have to be on guard so much, and he would have felt Cormac before he even set foot inside the shop. _Omegas are prey_ , one of his tutors had told him once, quite crudely. _And once they reach breeding age, they possess the most heightened sense of smell so that they can protect themselves more easily against predators_. That one had been his least favourite tutor, to say the least. _Breeding age_. Ten years have gone by and the words still make Harry shiver.

“Here you go, Harry,” Mr Jones announces, handing him the parcel.

Harry nods thankfully. “Sir?” he asks before he leaves. “Could you please not tell my father what happened earlier? I wouldn’t want him to worry. And Cormac is only playing games, it’s nothing serious,” he adds lightly, hoping to convince the man that he was not in the least troubled by the encounter.

Mr Jones sighs heavily, scratching his head. “Harry, I cannot in good conscience–”

“Please don’t tell my father,” he repeats. “I don’t want him to be in trouble with the mayor.”

And it _is_ true. Mr Weasley would be absolutely livid if he found out, and he would march into Mr McLaggen’s office and give him a piece of his mind. There would undoubtedly be a lot of shouting and threatening, and McLaggen is an important man, even outside of Hogsmeade. There is already frequent trouble between Harry’s mother and the mayor’s wife. One day they are the best of friends and the next they are each other’s throats, spreading awful gossip and exchanging barely concealed insults in public. Another conflict between their two families is the last thing this town needs, and Mr Jones seems to consider this.

“I won’t speak of it,” he finally declares. “But if that boy hurts you in any way, you _must_ tell your father. Promise me this.”

“Yes, I promise. Thank you, sir.” Harry gives him a grateful smile before leaving.

He retreats into his bedroom as soon as he reaches home, and he curls up on his bed, holding tightly onto a pillow. He is tired, nothing more. He only needs to sleep, and he will feel better. He only needs to sleep and when he wakes again, he will have forgotten all about that incident with Cormac. He only needs to sleep all of that away.

Harry does not come down for dinner, but at supper time, he learns that his mother has spent the best part of the afternoon gossiping with Mrs McLaggen and has finally managed to learn what Mr Longbottom looks like. Of average height, quite slender and fair-haired, with the kindest of smiles, the mayor’s wife assured her. But the best of news, in Mrs Weasley’s opinion, is that he has apparently professed a love of dancing and is guaranteed to be present at the assembly on Friday.

“If he can only dance with Ginny once, he will _surely_ fall in love with her!” Harry’s mother declares fiercely, almost knocking over her glass in her zeal. “Oh, Arthur, if I can see Ginny married to such a gentleman, I shall have nothing more to wish for!”

Harry spends the most part of the following days avoiding his mother’s overwhelming bouts of excitement. She is absent for most of Tuesday, travelling with Ginny to a neighbouring town to see a seamstress about making adjustments to one of her dresses, or possibly purchasing a new one altogether, specifically for this week’s ball. Harry spends that afternoon alone with his father, the two of them reading their respective books and discussing various topics.

On Wednesday, Harry spends almost all day under his tree, having brought with him a variety of reading material and a collection of things to nibble on. When he returns, late into the afternoon, his mother is too excited even to scold him for his long absence. As soon as he sets foot into the house, it is revealed to him that the most wondrous thing has happened. Shortly after dinner, Mrs Weasley informs him fervently, Mr Longbottom has visited. Amongst all the information thrown at him, Harry manages to understand that he rode a white horse and wore a blue coat and that Mrs McLaggen was right in saying that he is fair-haired. Mrs Weasley was finally formally introduced, but he spent such a long time with Harry’s father in his study that Ginny barely managed to catch a glimpse of him.

Throughout all of supper, Harry’s mother alternately praises the young man’s good manners and complains that he has refused an invitation to supper the following day on the premise that he must return to London to finalise some affairs. What sort of affairs could he possibly have to finalise so that he must return to London after only having been in town for a few days? She dreads that he might be one of those young men who constantly wanders around and never stays put, like that Finnigan boy. Once again, Mr Weasley waits until the very end of the meal to inform her that Mr Longbottom’s primary reason for returning to London is so he can collect a large party to attend the assembly with him. Mrs Weasley’s joyous shrieks echo through the house until late that evening.

Friday arrives inevitably and much too rapidly in Harry’s opinion. He is certain his mother does not stop talking all day except to catch her breath every minute or so. Worst of all, she forbids him from leaving the house, insisting that he remains to help them prepare. And so Harry ends up spending most of the afternoon watching his mother and sister parade all sorts of dresses in front of him so he might help them decide which to wear, even though Mrs Weasley had proclaimed the night before that all those details had finally been settled. Harry nods and compliments each one, seeing no difference between most. He manages to look so evidently miserable and disinterested throughout that shortly before dinnertime he is finally banished from sight with much reproach and scolding.

“Mamma?” he finally gathers the courage to ask later that day, when it is pointed out that he should be getting dressed as well. “May I please stay home?”

This request causes such a stir to his mother’s nerves that for an instant he thinks she might faint in the middle of the parlour. “ _Why_ would you want to do such a thing?” she gasps, a hand over her heart. “You love dancing, dear!”

Harry does his best not to scold. If he remains polite and docile, he might just be allowed to miss this ball. “I do, but no one ever asks me, Mamma. Please, I don’t want to spend an entire evening sitting by myself.”

“Perhaps this time will be different. Ginny dear, cover that chest,” she reproaches, pulling on the neckline of her daughter’s dress. “You cannot _possibly_ stay home, Harry.”

“I feel quite sick,” Harry attempts, but he nearly winces at how whiny he sounds.

“Stop your nonsense at once and get dressed! I will not tell you twice!” his mother snaps, resulting in Harry stomping up the stairs moodily.

By the time he returns, visibly brooding and wearing a fancy waistcoat he despises because it is much too stiff to be comfortable, Ginny is in the parlour, fixing her hair a little, but otherwise ready in her beautiful cream-coloured dress.

“Susan told me that Seamus Finnigan will be there tonight,” she tells him when she sees that his frown is still in place. “He has returned from Oxford to visit. And Justin Fletchley should come as well. She says they asked about you and talked about visiting.”

“And yet they haven’t,” Harry says shortly, heading in search of his father so that he can tie his cravat for him.

His mother, however, rips the piece of silky fabric from his hands before he can leave the room. “None of that!” she insists. “You must show your neck tonight.”

Despite himself, Harry lets a long whine escape his throat. “But _Mamma_ , everyone wears them–”

“Everyone may, but not you. _You_ must show that you are unmated, dear–”

“ _Everyone_ knows that I am unmated!” Harry protests loudly.

“There might be some new Alphas tonight. Mr Longbottom is bringing people from London, or have you forgotten?”

“They don’t have to see my neck to know!”

“Now what is all this yelling?” Mr Weasley asks when he walks into the room, having been disturbed all the way into his study.

“Mamma won’t let me wear a cravat!” Harry cries out, his face heating up from the dread of possibly having to walk about a full ballroom with his throat so provocatively uncovered. The message this would send is enough to mortify him to death. “She says everyone must see my neck!”

There is a distinct flash of anger in Mr Weasley’s blue eyes. “Don’t be absurd, Molly,” he says quite dryly, retrieving Harry’s cravat from her hands. “What would people think? Do you want the poor boy to die of embarrassment?”

“If there are Alphas tonight, I worry it could be Harry’s only chance–”

“Concern yourself with Ginny and let _me_ worry about him,” Mr Weasley declares sharply, putting an end to the argument, already leading Harry away.

“Please don’t make me go,” Harry begs once they are out of the room. “I would rather stay here with you.”

Mr Weasley smiles softly down at him before lifting Harry’s collar and setting to the task of tying his cravat. “I understand, child. But in our lives, we all must do things we would rather not do. Do this for your mother tonight and I believe we will all be the better for it.” He folds and ties the soft fabric intricately until it is comfortably snug around Harry’s throat, and then he smiles at the finished result. “There,” he declares, cupping Harry’s sad face in both his hands. “A sight for sore eyes. If there is but one sane man there tonight, I believe you will not have to sit down once.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Harry mumbles, though he strongly doubts this.

Assemblies were not so cumbersome before his brothers left, as at least one of them would remain and sit with him so that he would not be lonely, but now they are long and useless and humiliating. On any other day, on a day with nothing of note, with no newcomers or unusual excitement, if his mother were in her normal state of obsessive pestering and not this sort of nervous and unpredictable behaviour, perhaps it would be possible to convince her. Harry would stubbornly refute her a few times, they would argue back and forth and then she would tire and leave him alone to spend a quiet evening in his bedroom with Hedwig and his books.

In hindsight, he was stupid to believe that all this commotion would not inevitably cause her to remember the existence of her Omega son and to entertain the notion that if tonight she might secure a marriage for her daughter, she could also try to find a good match for him. He longs for the day she deems him a hopeless cause.

Silent and still brooding, Harry lets his mother fuss over his hair and straighten his clothes before they all climb into the carriage and head to town. Ginny smiles encouragingly at him, but Harry turns away to look out the window, resigned to spend another long evening sitting by himself while everyone else dances.

Harry absolutely _loves_ dancing. Perhaps the most hurtful thing about being an Omega in such a small town is that people are so obstinate as to think that dancing with him would make them an object of derision. No Beta, not even one of his friends, would dare ask Harry to dance, fearing that onlookers will think them inclined towards men. And all the Alphas in town are either too proud or already married. But most of them are too old for Harry’s liking either way. None of the young Alphas ever remain in Hogsmeade for long, seeking more interesting lives elsewhere. If only Cormac would follow their example, he thinks darkly.

It was Charlie who taught him to dance, having moved the furniture in the parlour to make space and humming to imaginary music while Harry laughed himself silly. He would twirl Harry around in all sorts of ridiculous ways, inventing intricate steps he pretended were very common and yes, absolutely necessary, and getting falsely upset whenever Harry confronted him about lying. His heart feels heavy as he remembers. If only Charlie would come home…

Assemblies are held at Gringotts Hall, a tall and magnificent building which houses the mayor’s office and the town council chambers. The ballroom is incredibly large, with shiny marble floors and enormous candelabras. It is bustling with people, as every Friday evening, and the dancing has already started by the time the Weasleys arrive, but Harry’s mother is quickly informed that Mr Longbottom and his company are not yet present. She seems slightly disappointed, perhaps hoping that Ginny might make a noticeable entrance.

“Weasley!” someone calls out as Harry wanders around somewhat nervously, his mother having dragged Ginny over to Mrs McLaggen in the hopes that she will be the first young woman seen by Mr Longbottom when he arrives. “Hey, Weasley! Over here!”

Harry smiles at the sight of the three young men waving him over, hoping that maybe this evening will not be as tedious as he first thought. Seamus, Justin, and Terrence are mostly Ron’s friends yes, but he knows them well enough to be comfortable around them.

“He’s alive!” Seamus Finnigan exclaims when Harry makes his way over to them, proceeding to give Harry a great, friendly clap on the back. “Thought you were hiding in a hole or something! We’ve been back for days now and no sign of you!”

Harry grins up at him. Charlie once remarked that he doesn't like how gruff and rude Seamus acts with him, but Harry appreciates it. He likes that Seamus treats him the same way he would any of his friends, never giving the slightest thought to Harry being an Omega.

“Probably off reading somewhere, weren’t you?” Justin teases.

“Generally, yes,” Harry admits, grinning. “Hiding from my mother mostly.”

The three young men laugh and shake their heads, being familiar with Mrs Weasley’s antics from having played at The Burrow enough times when they were children.

“Your sister looks very handsome this evening,” Terrence Boot remarks, his gaze drifting over to Ginny. “I think I’ll ask for a dance now while it’s still early. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he announces, straightening his waistcoat before walking away.

“ _Everyone_ is here tonight,” Justin remarks with some admiration, looking around at the cramped ballroom. “Look at them all. Like vultures waiting to sink their claws into fresh meat. They say Longbottom is bringing a party of twenty.”

Seamus shakes his head. “I know Longbottom from Oxford. He’s a good lad. And it’s not twenty people he’s bringing, just four, my father says. They’re all making a fuss over nothing. How is Ron doing?” he asks Harry then. “I haven’t heard from him in months!”

Harry shrugs. “Nor have I. All I know I heard from Fred and George. They say he has a lady friend, a banker’s daughter.”

Seamus scoffs. “Your brother is a dolt. If he had any sense, he would have asked for Hermione Granger’s hand ages ago instead of prancing about London like a fool, pretending to be someone he’s not. A banker’s daughter,” he repeats incredulously. “A good smack on the head is what he needs.”

Harry grins. “That’s my opinion as well. Be sure to give him one if you ever see him.”

At that moment the music stops, the dancing halts, and everyone turns to look in the same direction at the figures who have just entered the ballroom. Seamus was right about the numbers. There are only five newcomers, and the mayor is making his way through the crowd to greet them.

“Which one of them is Mr Longbottom?” Harry asks Seamus.

“The one in the centre, in the blue waistcoat. On either side are his cousins. Miss Parkinson on the left and Mrs Nott on the right. Mrs Nott’s husband is next to her, with the grey coat. And the gentleman on the left, all in black, is Mr Snape.”

Mr Longbottom is indeed of average height and fair-haired, though not as slender as Harry had imagined. He does have a very noble disposition, and the large smile that forms on his face when he shakes the mayor’s hand exudes honesty and friendliness. Harry immediately likes him. Miss Parkinson, on the other hand, he immediately dislikes, with her haughty and proud expression. As for Mrs Nott and her husband, Harry looks at them only briefly before his gaze settles instead on the third gentleman.

“Mr Snape?” he repeats, staring curiously at the man.

“A distant relative. He was named Longbottom’s guardian after his grandmother's death,” Seamus explains. “Longbottom is of age now, but they are still very close friends. He’s an Alpha.”

Harry knew that. He could tell even from this distance. With such a man as this Mr Snape, there is no need for scents or any other proof. His posture alone, the way he commands himself, is indication enough. He is quite tall, with handsome features that a frowning brow and an impressive nose do not manage to depreciate. But where Mr Longbottom seems delighted to be here, Mr Snape regards the assembly with the air of someone who has either just stepped onto a nail or who feels quite nauseated.

“Just look at him,” Justin remarks with a quiet laugh. “That’s a miserable fellow if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Poor man. He looks positively in pain,” Harry mumbles, and they chuckle quietly.

“Miserable he may be, but poor certainly not,” Seamus informs them, shaking his head. “Ten thousand a year, I’ve heard. And he owns a house in Mayfair and an estate that takes up half of Derbyshire.”

When Harry looks back to the newcomers to take a second, curious glance of this Mr Snape, their eyes meet instantly. Breath catches in his throat, unprepared as he is to be so noticed in such a large crowd. Can the man possibly tell, even from this distance, that he is an Omega? Is that why he is looking at him so, noticing _him_ amongst all others? Or is it just happenstance? Was Mr Snape just inspecting the room with an unconcerned glance and Harry just happened to look up at the right moment? Nevertheless, the man’s eyes remain fixed on him, though he had until then been looking at everything and everyone with marked disinterest. Before Harry can pry his eyes away, the music resumes, and the dancers return to their dancing, shielding him from view.

“Longbottom!” Seamus calls out, waving to make himself noticed behind the dancers. 

Mr Longbottom glances his way and grins before excusing himself to the mayor and walking over to them. “Finnigan!” he exclaims amicably as they shake hands. “I forgot this was your motherland!”

“Hogsmeade born and raised!” Seamus grins before introducing them. “This fine fellow is Justin Fletchley. Don’t use complex words, he’s from Cambridge. And this is Harry Weasley.”

Mr Longbottom’s eyes widen, and he is instantly grinning, reaching out to shake Harry’s hand eagerly. “Mr Weasley! A pleasure to make your acquaintance! I have met your father the other day. A most amusing fellow, very clever. And he speaks quite fondly of you.”

“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr Longbottom,” Harry greets him.

As they chat and get properly acquainted, Harry concludes that although Mr Longbottom is not exceedingly good-looking, he has such amiable manners and such a nice disposition that the longer you are in his company and the more you witness his expressions, the more handsome he becomes. When engaged in discussion, he appears so captivated by what his interlocutor is saying that they immediately feel important and comfortable in his presence. He is humble and unpretentious, and though he seems embarrassed by all the attention of the countless people he is introduced to, he remains gracious and pleasant.

After conversing with Harry, Justin, and Seamus for some time, he politely excuses himself, explaining that he should walk about the room to receive all the proper introductions, and that he has already promised to dance with Miss McLaggen. Upon his leave, Seamus and Justin also depart, seeking dancing partners and leaving Harry to sit by himself as usual.

As he watches the dancers, Harry feels particularly stupid for thinking that this evening might differ in any way from all the other assemblies he has attended before. Whenever a young man, looking for a partner, approaches the benches where girls sometimes gather to talk and gossip, he carefully avoids the place where Harry is sitting, not even daring to meet his eyes. And so, Harry sits and observes and listens to the chatter, waiting for this all to be over.

Mr Longbottom quickly becomes the talk of the ball, and his companions as well. Miss Parkinson wears a most elaborate dress that spurs envy or disdain amongst the ladies, depending on how jealous or intimidated they are by her cold beauty. Mrs Nott, although very elegant, is quiet and content to follow her husband, who seems plain and uninteresting. As for Mr Snape, he is the object of a lot of discreet or not-so-discreet staring and mumbling. The gentlemen comment on his fine figure and the perfectly tailored coat he wears, and the ladies express how much more handsome he is than Mr Longbottom. But whereas he is first looked at with great admiration, brought on by his impeccable appearance and rumoured considerable fortune, his terrible manners and the permanent expression of dismissal on his face quickly cause his popularity to dwindle.

Harry tries to make his glances more prudent after the incident following Mr Snape’s arrival, but he can often feel the man’s gaze on him as he wanders around the room. A number of times throughout the evening, he finds himself hoping that Mr Snape might be wandering about in such a manner trying to find someone to introduce them so he can stop staring and ask Harry for a dance, but each time Harry is sorely disappointed. Mr Snape dances only once with Miss Parkinson and then asks no one else all evening.

As hours pass without a single dancing request and quite a lot of intense staring from Mr Snape, Harry moodily concludes that the man considers himself well above everyone else and that not even the smallest part of his large estate in Derbyshire, nor one morsel of his beautiful house in London, may save him from having a most forbidding and disagreeable countenance.

Oh yes, Mr Snape is truly and thoroughly unworthy of being compared with his young friend, Harry decides. Mr Longbottom speaks to everyone present. He is lively and unreserved and dances often and well. Harry even overhears him expressing his intention of giving a ball in his own home as soon as he is fully settled. He dances with every young lady, including Ginny, of course, quite a few times, to Mrs Weasleys’ greatest joy. Ginny truly shines tonight. She does not stop dancing all evening, with the most agreeable young men, but with Mr Longbottom the most, talking at length as they do so. She seems all the more popular for it, and his cousins appear to enjoy her company as well.

Hermione joins Harry a few times on his bench, claiming that her feet hurt tonight, but he knows with near certainty that she is only using this as a pretence to keep him company. They laugh and comment on the dancers and Harry is grateful she never mentions Lockhart’s book once, for he has no desire to be further humiliated tonight.

Near the end of the evening, Harry finds himself thoroughly unsettled when Mr Snape stops near him after having walked all around the room. The man’s eyes weigh heavy on him, and his scent is overwhelming. It makes Harry equally nervous and furious. What is the man playing at with his staring and lingering? Is he taking pleasure in making Harry uncomfortable?

Mr Longbottom approaches, out of breath and radiant from dancing. “Severus, you _must_ dance,” he insists, evidently continuing a conversation they must have been having all night. “I hate to see you standing by yourself so stupidly. What will people think of you?”

Mr Snape snorts quite harshly and when he speaks, it is with a voice deeper and far softer than Harry had expected, though the tone is derisive. “I care not what they think. I hate dancing unless I am well acquainted with my partner, and as such, it would be unbearable for me to dance tonight. Your cousins are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be an absolute punishment for me to dance with.”

Surprisingly, Mr Longbottom laughs at his harsh words. “How difficult you are! I have never met so many pleasant girls in my life. They are all so polite and handsome.”

“They are polite only because they know you are eligible and possess a good fortune. None of their pleasantness is honest,” Mr Snape says with scorn.

“Why must you be so pessimistic? Several of them are uncommonly pretty.”

“ _You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” he insists, and Harry feels a certain satisfaction knowing he is speaking of Ginny.

“Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld,” Mr Longbottom declares before lowering his voice considerably. “But I talked to her brother before, Severus, and he is lovely. An Omega, with striking eyes. His father told me he wanders the moors at dawn, his nose constantly in a book. It reminded me of you!” he finishes, teasing.

Harry feels his face heat up. He was not meant to hear those words, but what he lacks in sense of smell he makes up for in hearing. He doubts he has ever been called _lovely_ before, but he does his best to pretend he is completely unaware that they are discussing him. Looking straight ahead, he watches the dancing though listening intently at their words.

“Which one do you mean?” Mr Snape asks with marked disinterest.

Harry almost scoffs. Of course, such a proud man would pretend not to have noticed him when he has in fact been staring at him all evening.

“This one here,” Mr Longbottom all but mumbles. “With the dark hair and the green waistcoat. Isn’t he lovely?”

There is a pause, during which Harry feels shivers travel up his spine, knowing they are surely both looking his way. And then Mr Snape scoffs again, with such disdain this time that Harry’s heart drops to the pit of his stomach.

“He is barely tolerable, and certainly not handsome enough to tempt me,” the Alpha says coldly. “And he has been sitting by himself all night. Why should I give consequence to young men who are ignored by everyone else? You best return to your dancing, Neville. You are wasting your time with me.”

If either of them says anything more, Harry does not hear, for he springs to his feet and heads for the door as fast as he can, his heart in his throat. He keeps walking until he is outside, and then he keeps walking some more, determined to get as far away from the ballroom as possible, as far away from that horrible man as he can get.

“Harry!” someone calls out. “Harry, wait!” He turns briefly to see Hermione, running after him in her beautiful blue dress. “What happened?” she asks, out of breath. “I saw you storming out. Did someone–”

“Leave me alone!” he says sharply over his shoulder, not wanting her to see how hard he is trying to hold back his tears. “Return to your dancing! I don’t need your pity!”

He keeps walking until the music fades behind him, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, shivering despite the warm evening air. He is well out of town, where the road is dark and the only light comes from the shining moon, before he allows a sob to escape his throat. _Only one_ , he thinks furiously, repressing all the others. He will _not_ cry because of that despicable man. He will _not_!

The house is still and quiet when he arrives home, but the lights are on in his father’s study downstairs. For that reason, Harry finds himself sitting on the porch instead of going inside, knowing that his father will notice his arrival and his obvious state of distress and inevitably question him about it. He must calm down before he can go inside. He will never be able to keep his countenance in his father’s presence. He will start sobbing like a little boy. And Harry has suffered enough humiliation for one night.

 _Barely tolerable_ , Mr Snape said. _Not handsome enough_. And he spoke with such disgust. Harry has been the object of annoying gossip before, the recipient of irritating comments, but never has he heard such demeaning, cruel words. Is that what people think of him, what they talk about when they gossip behind his back? Is that what they are too polite to say in his presence? Is that why no one ever spares him a glance, why no one wants to be seen dancing with him?

Harry takes deep breaths, trying to keep the panic at bay. Mr Longbottom said he was _lovely_. Harry cannot be so ugly as that if he can be called lovely. And yet Mr Longbottom did not ask him to dance either. He called Harry lovely but did not think him handsome enough to dance with.

“Harry?” his father’s voice suddenly calls from behind him, and the man emerges out onto the porch a second later. “What are you doing here? When did you get here?”

Harry only shakes his head, breathing in deeply to keep from shedding the tears he has been trying so hard to repress.

“Where is your mother? Did you walk all the way here?” Mr Weasley asks disbelievingly when he sees that there is no sign of the carriage. Then, upon noticing the look on Harry’s face, the barely repressed shaking of his shoulders, he says, quite angrily, “Is it that McLaggen boy? Did he _touch you_?”

Harry shakes his head again, still not looking at his father. Were he in his right mind he would be upset that Mr Jones told his father what happened in the shop. Or did he? Does Mr Weasley really need to be told of these things? He may very well have noticed Cormac’s behaviour even before Harry himself did.

Harry takes deep breaths. He will not cry. He will _not_ cry. “Papa…” he mumbles before his voice breaks and he starts sobbing softly.

Mr Weasley sits next to him, visibly worried now, and wraps his arms around him at once. Harry presses his face into his father’s shoulder, crying helplessly.

“Shh. My boy,” Mr Weasley whispers softly, holding him tight. “My dear boy… One day, I promise you… you will have all the happiness in the world.”

* * *

Severus was twenty-five years old when he first met Neville, and the boy was a plump and teary-eyed child who had so often been scolded and insulted by his hag of a grandmother that he could barely look adults in the eye. It is only natural, when comparing the way things were then to the way they are now, that Severus should feel pride at what the young man has become after being entrusted into his care. He _does_ tend to smile too much, in Severus’ opinion, but a man is what he is. Some things one simply cannot change.

The general consensus, when it comes to Severus Snape and Neville Longbottom, is that they are as different from each other as two men possibly can be. That they should spend so much time together without constantly bickering is an object of complete confusion amongst even their closest friends. They do bicker quite a lot, yes, but Neville’s forgiving nature and Severus’ lack of patience for trivial disputes allows them to move past contentions very easily. They have never been at odds for more than a day or so. Severus secretly takes great pleasure in their verbal jousts, pleased as he is with the young man’s wit and confidence, with his eloquence, with his serene and good-natured demeanour, so different from the one Neville had as a child. There is nothing that discipline, along with a listening ear, a good education and a fair bit of encouragement cannot change. Except the smiling, of course.

Their latest disagreement, however, constantly resurges, and neither of them seems willing to abdicate. Severus is all for titles and inheritance being passed down to their proper heirs, but in this case, if Neville would decide to simply sell his father’s estate instead of living there, he would be most relieved. What an unpleasant town. The mayor, for one, must be one of the most objectionable men Severus has ever had the misfortune of meeting – and he has met many an objectionable man in his life. And all those young ladies throwing themselves at Neville’s feet. At least in London they have the decency to be discreet about this sort of thing, to be proper. Oh, how Severus despises small towns such as Hogsmeade. All those people staring rudely, pointing and whispering, wanting to know everything – how big a fortune, how large an estate, what relations. It is truly exhausting, and Severus doubts he will stay here much longer than the time it takes to see Neville properly settled in his new home.

He has never been more grateful to see an evening end. Although he would enjoy it much more if the young man in question had not been staring at him darkly from the moment they climbed aboard the coach.

“What is it?” Severus finally asks, annoyed.

Neville, ever honest and frank when it comes to criticising him, shakes his head, and a deep frown takes over his normally kind features. “What has the poor boy ever done to you to merit such harsh words?” he asks in a dry tone he mostly reserves for moments such as this, when scolding Severus.

“What are you talking about? Which _poor boy_?”

Neville scoffs, easily seeing through the lie. “You know perfectly well what I am talking about, Severus. Miss Weasley’s brother. _Barely tolerable?_ Whatever did you mean by that? He is surely the most handsome Omega I have ever seen. And I know you share my opinion, don’t try to deny it!”

“The most handsome, is he? I’ll be sure to let Julian know,” Severus remarks lightly.

Theodore chuckles. “Please wait for me to be present when you do so.”

“Are you speaking of the dark-haired young man who sat alone all night?” Pansy asks in her usual disinterested drawl. “Unusually handsome yes, for such a town as this one.”

Astoria nods. “I did notice him as well. Such a shame that people would ignore him so,” she says softly. “I do believe he would be quite popular in London.”

“What is it you called him, Severus?” her husband asks, having not paid much attention before.

“Barely tolerable!” Neville repeats sharply. “And he was heard by him!”

Pansy grins at Severus under the lights of the coach, looking quite delighted. “How heartless you are.”

“I care not that I was heard,” Severus says impassively. “By him or by anyone else.”

“The poor boy stormed out. He looked completely devastated,” Neville protests. “I intend to visit the Weasleys again, you know. I very much enjoyed talking to his father. What if he confronts me about your behaviour?”

“Then you will do what you always do. You will make excuses and tell him how much of a miserable sod I am. I could not care less,” Severus snaps, thus hoping to settle the matter.

Pansy guffaws, as she always does on the rare occasions Severus uses vulgarity. If they keep talking about his supposedly atrocious behaviour afterwards, he completely ignores them, content to look out the window at the dark landscape.

It is only much later, when Severus is alone in his rooms at the vast and still mostly empty estate, that he allows himself to think back on the event.

Suffice it to say he was lying when he said he did not care that the boy heard him. He regretted the words as soon as they passed his lips, as soon as he saw the young man’s expression upon hearing them.

 _Which one do you mean?_ he had asked Neville, though there was no need to ask, for Severus had noticed the Omega mere moments after setting foot in the ballroom. For he had seen those striking eyes from a fair distance away. The boy had held his gaze in a way no Omega in London, or anywhere else for that matter, had ever done. For an Omega to hold an Alpha’s gaze in such a way when they are not acquainted is generally frowned upon, and Severus had been unnerved at first, thinking it either an act of insolence or a challenge. But it had become clear, as the evening progressed, that the boy had no idea what he had done, had absolutely no clue what this act implied.

 _Unmated_. His scent was clear enough. _Unmated_ , _unclaimed_ , and surprisingly, _unmatured_. The boy seemed around Neville’s age, though his scent indicated he had not been in heat yet. He was the only Omega in the room, possibly the only one in town, from the way he was shunned and ignored. It makes Severus wonder about the boy’s family, about the boy’s father, whom Neville seems to appreciate so much. Has the man not taken care to inform his son how to act around strange Alphas? Is the boy so afraid that he would unintentionally repress his nature in an effort to protect himself? Yet another reason for Severus to despise small towns and their close-minded inhabitants.

Astoria was right in her statement that in London, such a boy would certainly not have been sitting by himself all night. And yes, Neville was right in claiming that he was the most handsome young Omega Severus had ever set his eyes upon. So much so that he constantly found himself observing him, lingering nearby, just so to look at him some more. The dark hair, the pale skin, the sharp cheekbones and lovely mouth. And those eyes, like shining emeralds. It made him want to sneer at all those people even more for not knowing how to appreciate true beauty when they saw it, for ignoring such a lovely creature. Yes, _lovely_. Neville was quite right about this as well, though Severus would surely consider the word an understatement in this case.

So why, oh _why_ did he have to say such nasty, hurtful words? Because Severus is a cowardly man, and when confronted with the truth and forced to admit his feelings, he snaps like a wild animal. Because he is too proud to admit, even to his closest friend, that he has never found himself admiring an Omega before this day, before casting his eyes on this one.

Though he would die rather than admit this to anyone, Severus knows that from this day forward, he will undoubtedly find himself comparing each Omega he meets to Harry Weasley. And he will find them lacking in every aspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The book Harry sends Charlie is _The Castle of Otranto_ by Horace Walpole, published in 1764 and considered one of the first gothic horror novels.
> 
> \- _Gulliver’s Travels_ is a satirical novel on human nature published in 1726 by Jonathan Swift. It relates the adventures of a man who travels to fictional lands and encounters new societies.
> 
> \- The magazine Mr Weasley reads, _The Examiner_ was published from 1808 to 1886 and is famous for featuring stories by writers such as Byron, Shelley, and Keats.


	3. proud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks infinitely for all the wonderful comments! You are the best! Here is chapter 3. I hope you will enjoy it as much as the others, and as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please don’t hesitate to let me know what you think.
> 
> As always, feel free to visit me on Tumblr (liladiurne) and say hello!

* * *

  
**\- 3 -**

**proud**

* * *

PROUD, _a_. [Saxon]

  1. Too much pleased with himself.
  2. Elated; valuing himself.
  3. Arrogant; haughty; impatient.
  4. Daring; presumptuous.
  5. Lofty of mien; grand of person.
  6. Grand; lofty; splendid; magnificent.
  7. Ostentatious; specious; grand.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

When Harry wakes, just by the way light fills the room, he can tell it is already late. Considerably so, especially for him, as he often tends to slip out of bed just as the sun rises. But this morning, he has absolutely no desire to leave it.

Predictably, he did not sleep much, tossing and turning constantly, the same words echoing over and over inside his head. _Barely tolerate. Not handsome enough. Ignored by everyone_. They make him equally miserable and furious. Miserable because those words are just exactly what he has been fearing, what he has always suspected deep down but has never dared to admit. And furious for allowing himself to be so affected by them coming from a stranger’s mouth. Perhaps more furious still because he really _did_ believe, and for quite some time, that Mr Snape could be staring at him and loitering about him so much because he was drawn to him. Because he might think Harry handsome and want to know him.

What a ridiculous notion. Harry feels so stupidly about it now, so intensely ashamed at hoping, if only for a moment, that it could possibly be the case. How could such a man ever be drawn to someone like him? How could a rich and important Alpha like Mr Snape be drawn to someone as uninteresting and plain and common as Harry Weasley?

Around him, the house is already noisy with life – with his mother’s voice, most of all. He could probably make out her words if he tried hard enough, if he cared enough, for they carry even all the way into his bedroom. He _really_ should get up, but he only turns inside his covers, pressing his face into the pillow.

He has not told his father exactly what happened at the assembly, not in details. Mr Weasley is aware that Harry was largely ignored, as usual, and that some words were spoken and overheard, but Harry has refused to tell him what they were or who said them. He might be able to repeat them in his mind, but he will not voice them aloud, not even for his father to hear. After much sobbing and consoling, Harry had retired to his room, and too exhausted by then to be further embarrassed, had allowed his father to tuck him into bed.

It is the sound of the breakfast bell that finally causes him to get up. Not that he is particularly hungry, but he knows his mother will scold him for leaving the ball so rudely without telling her, and for walking all the way home so late at night, alone in the dark. He does not want to give her a reason to scold him for being lazy as well. He dresses slowly, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. _Barely tolerable_. The green waistcoat is still on the old armchair where he threw it last night, and Harry looks at it for a long moment, hatefully. _Not handsome enough_.

Everyone is already settled at the table when he enters the dining room, his mother deep into a complete and detailed retelling of the events of the previous evening. From the look on his father’s face, Harry can tell this must be at least the third time she has told him the story. He feels Ginny’s eyes on him when he sits, and she smiles softly when he meets her gaze.

“–delightful evening! How I wish you had come, Arthur!” his mother exclaims, barely paying Harry any attention, as caught up in her story as she is. “Ginny was _so_ admired! Everyone said how beautiful she looked! I _knew_ it was the right dress! Oh, I am so pleased we didn’t decide on the pink one! Can you imagine if we had, Ginny dear? Miss Bones wore a pink dress, and so did Miss Lovegood! Mr Longbottom thought Ginny quite beautiful and danced with her twice! She is the only one with whom he danced more than once!”

“So you said, my dear,” her husband remarks distractedly, watching Harry closely for a moment before returning to his newspaper.

“He danced with Miss McLaggen first! I was so vexed when I saw him with her! And then he danced with Hermione, but he did not admire her at all. Nobody can. She is _so_ plain!”

At these words, Harry, who had been helping himself to some of Winky’s preserves, pauses to risk a dark glance in his mother’s direction. But having neither the will nor the patience to argue with her this morning, he chooses to remain silent.

“And that dress she wore was quite common, nothing like Ginny’s!” she adds with something like disdain. “Oh, but when he saw Ginny! He immediately asked who she was and asked her for the next one! And then he danced with Miss Lovegood, and then with Miss Bones. And the next one with Miss Vance, and then the next with Ginny again, and the next with–”

“I do wish he had sprained his ankle at the very beginning!” Mr Weasley exclaims, putting his paper aside abruptly. “That way he would not have danced so much! I _beg_ of you, say no more!”

“How are you, Harry?” Ginny asks before their mother has the chance to start speaking again.

“You look much better than you did last night, I daresay,” Harry’s father adds at once. When his eyes meet Harry’s, he raises a subtle eyebrow, clearly prompting him to cooperate to the deception.

“Hermione told us you were ill and had left early,” Ginny explains.

“And how kind of her father to have his coachman take you home,” Mrs Weasley intervenes at once. “We must send a word to thank them.”

“I already have, Molly. Just this morning,” her husband assures her. “How is your headache, my boy?”

“I feel better, thank you,” Harry says softly, not meeting their eyes, concentrating on spreading preserves on his bread. He supposes it will be easy to make them believe he was ill in some way. His stomach is in knots, he has absolutely no appetite, and all he wants is to crawl back into bed at the first opportunity.

He feels even worse now somehow. That Hermione would come to his aid like this, allowing him to avoid his mother’s wrath, after not visiting her for days and being so rude to her yesterday, does not make him feel any better about himself. Of course, his father would play along, and he surely sent that note to inform Dr Granger of the deception, though Hermione will have told him already. Thankfully, Harry will never have to tell his mother the true reason for his abrupt departure. Knowing her, she would either scold him for his exaggerated response or be so offended as to tell everyone what has occurred. Either way, Harry would certainly never hear the end of it, and he just wants to forget.

“I am quite delighted with him! Mr Longbottom, that is,” Mrs Weasley immediately continues, now that the matter of Harry is settled. “He is excessively handsome, is he not, Ginny? And his cousins, such charming women! Did you notice the lace on Miss Parkinson’s dress?”

“Yes, it was beautiful. It is from Paris, she told me,” Ginny adds, still throwing brief glances at Harry across the table.

“Oh, but that Alpha, that Mr Snape!” their mother exclaims suddenly, as though she has just now remembered.

Harry freezes when he hears the name, but quickly recovers and proceeds to chew his bread slowly, looking down at his nearly empty plate while she chatters on.

“Such a proud and distasteful man! I thought he might ask Harry to dance, but I doubt he even _looked_ at him! I knew we should have tried something with your hair, Harry. Such constant disarray, it’s hopeless. We ought to just cut it very short, it might be more manageable!”

Harry would normally protest ardently at such a remark, but he says nothing. _Barely tolerable_ , he reminds himself, concentrating on chewing and swallowing. As his mother continues, he feels Ginny’s eyes on him even without looking up.

“But even then, he is such a rude man! He fancies himself very great, I believe, and I quite detest him without even having spoken to him.”

Harry swallows with difficulty. Everything is tasteless on his tongue. “I’m not very hungry this morning. May I be excused?” he asks, throwing his father a discreet but pleading look.

“Certainly, Harry. Would you please fetch the book I ordered from Mr Blotts if you go into town?”

Harry nods, already standing up, eager to be free of this torture. “I will. I think I’ll go now.”

“I want to buy some thread, can I come with you?” Ginny asks at once.

Taken aback by such an unexpected request, Harry hesitates, then he shrugs. “If you want.”

She drains the last of her tea and hurriedly follows him out of the room. The sound of their mother’s voice carries all the way to the front door as she continues pestering her husband about Mr Longbottom and his good manners. Outside, the sun is bright and the air smells sweet and heavy with summer.

“Are you certain you’re feeling better?” Ginny asks as they climb down the porch. “Papa said you had been in bed for a while when we came home.”

“I feel better, yes. Thank you,” Harry repeats, as honestly as possible, smiling at her briefly before looking down at his feet.

They walk in silence for some time, the air filled with the shivering sounds of the cicadas. Harry cannot help but notice how beautiful Ginny looks in her white muslin dress, with her golden red hair intricately tied up in a ribbon. She is always beautiful, of course, but somehow it is more evident to him this morning. _The most beautiful creature I have ever beheld_ , Mr Longbottom said. _Not handsome enough_ , Mr Snape said.

“You were very quiet this morning,” she remarks softly, and Harry catches her staring at him from the corner of his eye.

He shrugs. “Mamma speaks enough for all of us.”

Ginny chuckles and nods. If Harry is quiet, then _she_ is particularly talkative today. He has a feeling that thread is not the only thing she hopes to acquire from this trip into town. She is cleverer than she lets on and has probably concluded that he was not really ill yesterday. From the way she keeps staring at him expectantly, he feels like some form of interrogation is coming.

She laughs suddenly, breaking the stillness of their surroundings. “You’re walking too fast!” she protests, grabbing onto his arm and holding onto it to slow him down to her pace. “Let us take our time. It’s such a beautiful day. And we don’t spend nearly enough time together, don’t you think?”

Oh yes, she definitely knows something has happened. Fearing that she is about to ask questions he will not want to answer, Harry hurriedly takes control of the conversation. “What do you think of Mr Longbottom?”

She smiles, pushing away a strand of hair that keeps brushing her cheek. “He is just what a young man ought to be,” she says softly. “Sensible, good-humoured, and lively. I never saw such good manners, or so much ease. And he has a lovely smile.”

“He does,” Harry agrees. “He becomes more handsome the longer you are in his company.”

Ginny grins this time, and a blush spreads on her freckled cheeks. “I thought so as well.”

“Yes, he is handsome. Thus, is character is complete,” Harry declares with a sigh.

She laughs, squeezing his arm tightly. “There is more than that! He is so gallant. I was flattered by his asking me to dance twice. I did not expect it.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t understand why compliments always take you by surprise. What could be more natural than his asking you again when it is clear you are five times as pretty as every other girl in town? That is no gallantry on his part, only good eyes,” he concludes.

Ginny frowns. He did not mean it that way, but perhaps his words sounded slightly bitter. “Do you not like him?”

“I _do_ like him. But why would it matter to you if I like him or not?”

She seems surprised at that. “I value your opinion.”

He stops walking for a moment to look at her closely. “You do?”

“Very much so,” she says, as if this were a completely evident fact. “You have an eye for seeing people’s true natures. And I want to know, honestly, what do you _truly_ think of him?”

Harry starts walking again, his free hand on top of her arm now, where it is holding onto his own. He thinks for a moment. “He has a good heart, I believe. He seems very kind. Kind is the best you can hope for in this world.”

Ginny is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, it is with a note of sadness in her voice. “I wish you would not say such things.”

“What things?”

“You often speak as if there is nothing good in this life. It pains me to hear it,” she says softly.

Harry shakes his head. “There _are_ good things. Only, they are not accessible to everyone.”

They fall silent again, walking in the shade of the trees now, and the light casts dancing shadows on Ginny’s face.

“If my opinion matters so much to you, then I gladly give you leave to like him,” Harry says. “You have liked many a stupider man.”

“Harry!” Ginny laughs, hitting him gently on the arm.

“It’s true! You are too apt to like people. You never see a flaw in anybody. All the world is good and agreeable in your eyes, and I swear I have never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life. Not even Fleur.”

Ginny chuckles, then seems to think this over for a moment. “I may not speak much, but when I do, I speak what I think.”

“Although there is much you do not speak.”

“There is much that should not spoken,” Ginny replies at once.

Harry scoffs. “You have a voice and the capacity to speak. You should use it.”

“Not everyone is willing to listen.”

“Then you should _make_ them listen.”

They fall silent again. Ginny tightens her grip on his arm slightly, as if wanting to offer some sort of truce or reassurance.

“With your good sense,” Harry continues, more softly this time, “how can you be so blind to the faults of others? How do you manage to take the good of everybody’s character and say nothing of the bad? I don’t know how you do it.”

“You could do it too, if you could refrain from noticing each and every little flaw in everybody.”

“That is not something I am able to do,” he concludes after a long moment.

They fall silent again as they arrive into town, where curious ears prevail. First, they stop at the postal counter, but Harry is disappointed to find no letter today. Then, they pick up their father’s book, and Harry accompanies Ginny to look at embroidery thread. They are approached by at least five different ladies, all wanting to compliment Ginny on her dress and her dancing at the ball, some of them not very sincerely, but Ginny remains polite and lovely throughout. Harry is, as always, curiously peered at but mostly ignored, but his sister holds onto his arm all the while, keeping him from wandering away in disinterest.

They learn from Mrs Bones and her daughter Susan, one of Ginny’s dearest friends, that the mayor has decided to throw a ball in a few weeks’ time, in honour of Mr Longbottom’s return, and that the whole town is to be invited. Harry snorts softly at the news, but Ginny squeezes his arm in warning while expressing her enthusiasm. This is obviously a plan from the McLaggens to get into Mr Longbottom’s good graces and manipulate him into marrying their niece. While his sister chatters on, Harry entertains himself with the thought of someone as lively as Mr Longbottom married to a girl as boring and dim-witted as Charlotte McLaggen.

When Mrs Weasley finds out about the mayor’s ball, she is completely outraged. She complains at length, as she frequently does, how unfortunate it is that The Burrow is built in such a strange way that it will be forever impossible for _them_ to hold any sort of venue worthy of the name. Then she proceeds to tell them all about the balls her father would throw when she was a young girl, sparing no details of the gentlemen she danced with, until Poppy walks in to inquire about some housekeeping matters, and Harry and Ginny seize the opportunity to flee. They spend the rest of the day lazing around in the garden, talking about unimportant things or Harry reading silently while Ginny works on her embroidery.

Harry decides that it is, surprisingly enough, quite a pleasant way to pass the time.

Dr Willem Granger has been raised in London, where he spent most of his life and acquired, as a young man, a notable reputation for his knowledge and skills in medicine. He was formally employed by many an important man and is still, to this day, very well-liked amongst the London elite. It was to the astonishment of his friends and colleagues that he considered moving to Hogsmeade after his wedding, having heard that the town needed a new practitioner after the death of old Dr Binns. When his new wife presented no objection to relocating, he packed their belongings at once. If asked why he left the city to settle in a rural town, he will smile and say that it was only because he longed to breathe fresh air and see the stars better.

Being an only child, he has inherited a certain fortune from his father, which would allow him to live comfortably for the rest of his days with no effort, but he is a humble man and has chosen to pursue a modest career despite his financial advantage. Because he wants to be useful, he often says, and because he is ever in search of knowledge.

He is a tall man, taller than Harry’s father, and has a head of prematurely grey hair that he wears neatly combed back. He possesses as well as a squared jaw, constantly clean-shaven, a wide forehead and the type of serious brow and piercing eyes that one could find intimidating if they did not know him. He is by nature friendly, ingenious, and amusing, and the wisest and cleverest man Harry has ever met. Yet he takes pleasure in telling the most disgusting anecdotes at the most inappropriate times to cause outrage. But only when amongst friends, of course. He has, from his first days in Hogsmeade, developed a close friendship with Mr Weasley. The two men visit each other almost every day, and Harry quite enjoys the sound of their laughter echoing through The Burrow. They share a love for astronomy and together have built a large telescope, which is now installed in the cramped room at the top of the northwest tower. They often spend part of the night up there, stargazing and drinking mead. They have also formed some sort of private club, composed of five of six men, and hold meetings a few times a week. Harry is very curious about what they discuss, but even Hermione, who has often attempted to eavesdrop, is unable to provide any useful information on the matter.

Hermione’s mother, Harry finds, is a very good match for him. Like her daughter, she is clever and witty, but she does not take the same pleasure in gossip as Mrs Weasley does. For that reason, the two women are on polite enough terms, though certainly not as close as their husbands.

Sunday sees all of them – Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and their parents – all gathered at The Burrow for supper. As usual during meals, the two men are sitting far apart, so as to prevent them from mumbling and giggling throughout. They keep sharing meaningful glances and smirks across the table as the conversation steers yet again, inevitably, towards last Friday’s assembly.

“You began the evening well enough, Hermione,” Mrs Weasley comments. “You were Mr Longbottom’s second choice.”

Hermione smiles politely, taking a sip from her glass before replying, “Yes, but he seemed to like his third better.”

Harry’s mother has the good sense to at least feign confusion. “Oh? You mean Ginny, I suppose? Because he danced with her twice?” she asks distractedly, and when Harry meets Hermione’s eyes across the table, they share a grin. “To be sure, it _did_ seem as if he admired her. And indeed, I rather believe he did… I heard something about it, but I hardly know what...”

She trails off pensively, clearly expecting someone to confirm her hearsay. Harry shakes his head at her antics but does not comment on her false modesty. After a pause, Mrs Granger, surely to save them all the trouble, is the one to reply.

“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and the mayor. Did I not mention it to you?” she asks in false surprise, but if Mrs Weasley catches the mockery, she gives no sign of it. “Mr McLaggen asked him how he liked our ball and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty ladies in the room, and which he thought the prettiest. And he immediately answered the last question. _Oh, Miss Weasley, beyond a doubt_ , he said. Mr McLaggen seemed quite upset about it, though he managed to hide it well enough.”

Mrs Weasley smiles at the pleasant news. “It _does_ seem as if he admired Ginny the most! And I wonder if he might not visit anytime soon. Oh, we dare not get our hopes up, do we?”

“Does this not look like a piece of human liver to you?” Dr Granger exclaims with wonder, poking at the red slice on his plate, prompting both Harry and Mr Weasley to laugh and Hermione to shake her head in exasperation.

“It’s boiled beetroot, my dear,” his wife says calmly.

“Splendid!” Dr Granger remarks, taking a bite and then grinning at Harry with reddened teeth.

“Mr Snape is not as worthy of being listened to as his friend, is he?” Mrs Weasley says at once, unwilling to have the conversation deviate from her favoured subject.

“Indeed. He sat close to me for half an hour without once opening his lips,” remarks Mrs Granger. “And when I asked him how he liked the Longbottom estate and he could not avoid answering me, he seemed quite angry at being spoken to.”

“Mr Longbottom told me that he never speaks much unless among his intimate friends,” Ginny adds. “He says that with them Mr Snape is remarkably agreeable.”

Mrs Weasley scoffs. “I don’t believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have conversed with Mrs Granger. Everybody says that he is exceptionally proud! What goes on in such a despicable man’s head, I dare not imagine.”

“This reminds me of a funny story!” Dr Granger announces. “I once opened a dead man’s skull, and I swear the inside of his brain was like–”

“Willem, no!” his wife scolds abruptly, casting a frown in his direction.

“Arthur! Stop laughing! Oh, like children, those two!” Mrs Weasley complains, shaking her head. “I daresay that Mr Snape would–”

Harry, who is sitting directly beside Dr Granger, leans in and asks, in a whisper, “What was it like, the man’s brain?”

“Like porridge, Harry,” Dr Granger hisses. “ _Porridge_!”

“Hmmm,” Harry contemplates, biting into a roasted potato. “What caused that, I wonder?” he mumbles.

Dr Granger’s lips curl slowly. Then, his eyes full of laughter, he declares, “Listening to your mother for too long.”

Harry guffaws, nearly spitting out his food, and Dr Granger bursts out laughing as well, which causes Mr Weasley to do the same, soon followed by both Hermione and Ginny.

“Will you _stop_?” Mrs Weasley shouts angrily. “All of you! Can’t we just have a nice supper for once?”

After everyone has been thoroughly scolded, the conversation, unfortunately, returns to Mr Snape’s disagreeableness and pride.

“One should not be surprised that such a man, with family, fortune, and everything else in his favour, would think highly of himself,” Hermione states. “I believe he has a right to be proud, although he should not display it so blatantly.”

“Indeed, pride is a very common flaw,” her father remarks. “I believe that human nature is particularly prone to it. It is inescapable. There are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency regarding some quality or another.”

“I believe that vanity is the worst flaw a person can possess!” Mrs Weasley adds with disdain. Ginny and Harry share a look of amused disbelief at hearing such words from _her_ mouth.

“Oh, vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously,” Dr Granger continues. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves and vanity to what we would have others think of us. Pride can be good in certain cases, but vanity rarely is.”

Lying in bed later that night, Harry wonders. Is it truly pride then, or really vanity, that prompted Mr Snape’s words? It _did_ seem, for a large part of the night, that he wanted to approach Harry, or that he was trying to be introduced. Despite his later insults, Harry cannot _entirely_ rid himself of this impression. Perhaps he was afraid what others might think of him. Harry was, just like he so brusquely stated, _ignored by everyone else._ Perhaps he did not want to be seen disregarding their example. Although, on second thought, if Mr Snape cared so much what others thought of him, he would have succumbed to his friend’s chiding, and he would have danced. If he cared in the slightest, he would have smiled and engaged in conversations and presented himself in a better way, even if he did not want to be there at all.

Pride, then. The belief that one is better than others, above others, worthier.

But it does not matter either way, Harry concludes. Pride or vanity aside, Mr Snape said what he said, and Harry will not soon forget it.

The next day, early in the afternoon, Harry’s mother drags Ginny to the Longbottom estate to visit Miss Parkinson and Mrs Nott. As expected, it is all Mrs Weasley can talk about for the rest of the day, from the moment she sets foot back inside the house, throughout all of supper, and until they retire to bed that night. Harry and his father are treated to a detailed description of the grounds, the manor, the clothes the ladies wore, the subjects of their conversation, the food that was served. Over and over, Mrs Weasley expresses how disappointed she is that Mr Longbottom was absent. Along with his two other guests, he had gone shooting with Mr Finnigan and his son, she deplores. But at least, they did not have to suffer that awful Mr Snape’s presence.

The day after that, to Harry’s greatest displeasure, Miss Parkinson and Mrs Nott return the visit. Worst of all, they do so before Harry can manage to escape the house and thus, he is forced by his mother to remain and sit with the ladies in the parlour as they drink tea and exchange gossip.

The day before, Ginny had declared that Miss Parkinson’s manners may not be equal to her cousin’s at first, but that she is pleasing when you converse with her at length. Harry’s first opinion, however, is not altered. He strongly dislikes her and hiding this dislike from showing on his features proves most difficult. It is evident that she finds Mrs Weasley unbearable, but not being very apt at reading people’s characters, Harry’s mother remains oblivious to it all. It is a small mercy, perhaps. At least Miss Parkinson is agreeable enough towards Ginny, but Harry suspects that this strictly derives from her cousins’ affections, and that if Mr Longbottom did not like Ginny, Miss Parkinson would be just as cold to her as she is to everyone else. Unsurprisingly, Ginny seems to like her in return. But most of all, he dislikes this way Miss Parkinson has of looking at him. It is difficult to define, but it makes him uncomfortable. He tries his best to speak as little as possible in her presence, to avoid bringing attention to himself, and he sits the furthest away from her in the parlour. Whenever she glances at him there is a glint he does not like in her eyes. Something similar to fascination, but not quite. She seems of the boldly curious sort who asks untoward questions.

From his silent observations, Harry determines that she _is_ , in fact, a very fine young lady – rather handsome, not deficient in good humour when it pleases her, and perfectly able of making herself agreeable when she chooses. But she is, without a doubt, proud and conceited. It is evident in her manners, in each and every one of her smallest gestures. From her discourse, Harry gathers that she has been educated in a private school in London, has a fortune of twenty thousand pounds and is in the habit of associating with people of rank. She is, like Mr Snape, in every respect entitled to think well of herself. But in Harry’s eyes, this does not give her the right to think meanly of others.

Mrs Nott, on the other hand, Harry finds charming. She is much prettier than Miss Parkinson but is reserved and quiet. Although she does not speak much, what she says is often clever and amusing. She has a kind smile, and often speaks to Harry alone, as he is sitting the closest to her. Having heard from Mr Longbottom that he is fond of books, she asks about his current reading, and they discuss Shakespeare for a little while. She tells him of the plays she has seen and is very sad to hear that he has never been to London. Her husband, she says, knows the director of Drury Lane, and they attend whenever possible.

Later, as if this turn of events were not already torturous enough, it is announced that the gentlemen have arrived. Mrs Weasley is hardly able to contain her elation, and Harry his horror. This must be what an animal feels like when the snare tightens around its throat, he realises.

When Mr Longbottom, Mr Nott, and Mr Snape step into the parlour, the latter immediately sets his gaze on Harry, and then immediately averts it, removing the beautiful top hat he is wearing in a surprising act of politeness. At that moment, thankfully, Mr Weasley joins them, and Harry consoles himself that his father will surely come to his aid if Mr Snape were to be improper once again. Though he doubts the man would dare, with so many people around, his heart beats fast inside his chest, and he feels trapped, longing to escape.

“Severus, I believe you have not yet been introduced to Mr Harry Weasley,” Mr Longbottom says kindly as the proper greetings are being made.

Harry, hoping to be forgotten, feels his face heat up – with anger or shame, he does not know. He hopes beyond hope that Mr Snape will not want to shake his hand, because he simply cannot bear the idea of having to touch this man.

“A pleasure,” the man drawls with a bow so small Harry thinks he might have imagined it.

“Likewise,” he mumbles with a short nod, wishing he could just melt into the floor.

Fortunately, Mr Snape immediately directs his attention elsewhere, and Harry takes his seat again. If only he could quietly slip out of the room unnoticed, but his mother is sitting nearest the door now – having made space for Mr Longbottom to sit closer to Ginny – and is blocking the only way out.

“Ladies, please allow me to express how sorry I am to have missed your visit yesterday,” Mr Longbottom says once everyone in the room has been acknowledged and seated.

“Oh, don’t be sorry, cousin. We had a most pleasant time just between ourselves,” Miss Parkinson remarks, noticeably more amiable now that there are gentlemen present.

They discuss a variety of things. The town, the assemblies, the Longbottom estate, the weather. Mr Nott is fascinated by the house and asks Harry’s father plenty of questions about its origins and history. He seemed the boring sort at first, but after talking with his wife and learning that he loves theatre, Harry decides not to judge him too quickly. His eyes light up when he hears about the existence of the telescope and Mr Weasley, delighted, offers to show him at once. They excuse themselves and quickly disappear from the room. Harry watches them leave regretfully, hoping he could follow.

He looks down at his feet, or at his hands, observing his fingernails or his cuffs, refusing to look up in fear of meeting Mr Snape’s eyes. This is stupid, he realises, growing progressively furious. He is in his own home! Why should he be forced to keep silent and to keep his head down in his own home?

In a feat of courage and daring, he looks up. As expected, his eyes immediately meet Mr Snape’s, but the man turns away at once, holding tightly onto the top hat on his lap, and directs his attention to the conversation Mr Longbottom is having with Mrs Weasley. He seems uncomfortable now, Harry can tell, even as he keeps his features expressionless, from the way his jaw twitches and his grip tightens on the hat.

Harry finds a certain amount of joy in the man’s discomfort, and feeling quite bold now, allows his gaze to linger awhile before turning to the conversation as well. How could he ever think the man handsome? Harry wonders. That nose alone is terrible. Long and visibly hooked. If, at first, he thought it fit well with the rest of the man’s hard features, Harry decides now that it is completely ridiculous. And those eyebrows, so constantly frowned. Is the man even capable of smiling, or does he think it will hurt his face to do so? His eyes are dark, so dark you can barely see the pupils. Like bottomless pits that the light can’t reach into. No, Harry decides resolutely. Mr Snape is not handsome at all. No man, no matter how adequate his features, can be handsome if he is unkind.

Harry shifts his attention to Mr Longbottom. From the way he smiles when he speaks to Ginny, from the expression of awe in his eyes when he turns to her, it is perfectly evident that he likes her very much. And Harry knows, from their conversation a few days before, that Ginny likes him back, although she would never openly show it. She remains composed and unwilling to let her emotions show, smiling and talking amicably as always, as pleasant with him as she is with everyone else.

“Why, Severus,” Mr Longbottom says suddenly, amused, “have you made a new friend?”

Harry, like the others, looks to Mr Snape, and is immediately mortified. The man sits stiffly, still holding onto his hat, but Hedwig has jumped onto his knees and is purring loudly, covering his expensive black coat with long, white fur.

“Hedwig, no!” Harry cries out, jumping to his feet.

“Oh, I adore cats,” Mrs Nott gasps. “Is that a Persian? How beautiful she is!”

“Beautiful indeed,” Miss Parkinson remarks, laughing. “Why don’t you stroke her, Severus? She clearly demands your attention.”

“Oh, Harry! Get this creature out of here, would you?” Mrs Weasley exclaims, deeply offended.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, collecting Hedwig from the now deeply frowning man. “Sorry,” he repeats, his eyes meeting the dark, dark gaze for an instant – much too long in his opinion – before hurrying out of the room, a still purring Hedwig in his arms.

His heart pounding in his chest, Harry carries the cat to his bedroom, where she immediately jumps onto the windowsill and proceeds to lick at her paws lazily, as if she had not just caused him one of the greatest embarrassments of his life.

“You traitor!” he moans accusingly, sitting down heavily on the bed. “Of everyone in that room, you had to go to _him_?” Hedwig ignores him, twisting her head comically to try and lick at her own neck. Harry finds himself laughing, perhaps out of nervousness, and hides his face in his hands. “But you _did_ save me,” he admits. “Perhaps I should be thanking you.”

There is absolutely not the slightest chance that he will return to the parlour now that he has managed to escape it. Either way, his mother will be too preoccupied entertaining her guests to notice his absence. Quietly, Harry makes his way down the stairs and slips out through the back door, hurriedly getting as far away from the house as possible.

He decides to visit Hermione. There was no occasion to speak to her alone at supper the other night, and he has not yet been able to thank her for what she told his mother at the assembly. She is sitting outside as usual when he arrives.

“Good afternoon,” she greets, putting her book aside. “I’m pleased that you’re here. I was quite bored. Would you walk to the Shack with me?”

“Yes, good idea,” Harry agrees, and she gets to her feet eagerly.

The Shack – or the _Shrieking Shack_ – is how the locals call the old, disused watermill about a kilometre or so away from town. To reach it you must walk along a narrow path off the main road, mostly overgrown with grass and wildflowers at this time of year. It is a peaceful and secluded place, long abandoned, that children like to say is haunted because of the way the wind howls through the cracks in the old stones. The day is warm, but the sun is hiding behind thick, fluffy clouds, and they walk in the shadow of the trees as Harry tells Hermione about the visitors.

“I believe Ginny likes Mr Longbottom very much, though she hides it in his presence,” he declares, ripping out knee-high blades of grass as he walks.

Hermione seems thoughtful for a moment. “I think she is protecting herself. Though it could be disadvantageous for her to be so guarded.”

“How so?”

“If she conceals her affections too well, she may lose the opportunity of winning him over. Nothing good can come from keeping her feelings to herself.”

Harry shakes his head. “In your opinion she should express her affection openly?”

“A slight preference is natural enough, but very few of us are capable of being in love naturally, without effort or encouragement. I think Ginny should show more affection than she feels. Mr Longbottom likes your sister, you said it yourself, and I agree. It was evident even at the ball, from the way he looked at her. But he may never do more than like her if she doesn’t help him on.”

Harry laughs. “He seems a clever enough man. If _I_ can perceive her affection for him, he would have to be a simpleton not to notice it too.”

“But he does not know Ginny’s disposition as _you_ do. They have only met but twice now and will surely never be alone together, nor will it be possible for them to really converse privately without interruption, and thus to really come to know each other. Ginny should make the most of every minute she commands his attention. If she likes him, even just a little, she should show it in a way that he would be able to notice. Then, when she has secured him, she will have plenty of occasions for falling in love as much as she chooses. Otherwise he will think his affections unreciprocated and find someone else to reciprocate them.”

“You seem to have given this much thought,” Harry says softly.

Hermione looks away, peering into the trees as if she has just seen something interesting in the shadows, but Harry knows she is only avoiding his gaze. Perhaps this piece of wisdom comes from her own reflections on how she should act with Ron, though Harry would never dare presume and risk her becoming upset with him.

“It’s a good enough plan if all one desires is to get well-married,” he remarks. “However, I believe that–”

“I know how _you_ feel about the matter, Harry. I was talking about your sister. Not everyone can afford to wait for the perfect romance.”

He scoffs at this and looks at her darkly. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Waiting for the perfect romance? Are you under the impression that suitors have been throwing themselves at my feet and that I keep refusing them?”

“I only meant that you tend be more…” she sighs, clearly annoyed, “ _discerning_ than most people, more selective. Some of us are not allowed the luxury to pick and choose.”

“You would rather be well-married and unhappy?”

“Than grow old alone? Yes. It is better to have _someone_ , even if that person is not the perfect choice, than to have no one,” she admits softly.

“I disagree.”

“As I knew you would.” They walk in silence for a moment, then she adds, even more softly still, “Real life is not like in your books, Harry. No one is coming to sweep you off your feet. Sometimes you have to find your own way.”

Finally, they emerge out of the path and into the overgrown field where the old mill stands alone, a forgotten tower half in ruins, on the bank of an area where the river is wide and peaceful. There is nothing here but silence and the buzzing of insects. Without a single breath of wind, the scene seems almost fixed in a painting.

“I wanted to thank you for Friday,” Harry says as Hermione sits on a large rock near the water. “For telling my mother I was ill. And not telling her I walked home.”

Hermione smiles, eyes fixed on the still surface. “I know you would have done the same for me.”

“And I am sorry I yelled at you. Truly,” he adds, picking up a flat pebble from the ground and sending it skipping on the water. He can sense Hermione staring without looking at her. “I overheard Mr Longbottom talking to Mr Snape, prompting him to ask me for a dance,” he finally reveals. “The way Mr Snape answered… I had never heard such disgust directed at me before. It wounded me.” He finds another pebble and throws it towards the water, watching in silence as it skips flawlessly on the shiny surface.

“What did he say?” Hermione asks after a moment.

“That I was not handsome enough for him. _Barely tolerable_ , he said. And that everyone else was ignoring me, so why should _he_ bother?”

“Oh, Harry…” she says softly. “You know that’s not true, don’t you?”

“Everyone _does_ ignore me–”

“No. That you’re not handsome, I mean. That’s not true. Not at all.” She seizes his hand before he can fetch another pebble and squeezes it tightly in her own.

“You only say this because you’re my friend. You feel obliged–”

“I say this because I have eyes. And good taste,” she adds, teasing. “The people here, they don’t understand–”

“But Mr Snape is _not_ from here. At first I thought that… maybe…”

“He is a cruel man, Harry, and a fool if he can say such things about you and believe them,” she says gently, reassuringly. “You should not be so vexed about it. You should put it out of your head entirely, and never give this man one more thought. And I truly believe it would be quite unfortunate to be liked by him. I would not dance with him if I were you.”

Harry smiles slightly, squeezing her hand in return. “I believe I may safely promise you _never_ to dance with him.”

“You must show me how to skip stones like that,” she demands. “I never understood how you do it.”

He grins, amused. “Are you sure? It’s not very ladylike.”

Hermione grins back. “There is no one around to see, is there?”

Harry does not try to miss assembly this time. In fact, after speaking with Hermione, he is more determined than ever to attend it, even if he must be ignored and sit by himself all night again, if only to prove to Mr Snape that he is above all this nonsense, that he does not _need_ to be handsome enough for him. In his mind, it is just what Mr Snape would want, for him to remain at home, miserable and dejected and feeling inadequate. He will _not_ let the man have this satisfaction. And either way, it is very possible that Mr Snape will not be there himself. He was so unhappy last week, after all, that Harry believes he might just avoid the ball altogether this time. In fact, he strongly hopes so. The man should go back to London, or better yet, to Derbyshire, to the people he deems worthy of his company, and thus allow Hogsmeade to be freed of his wretched presence.

He picks his favourite waistcoat this time, a slightly worn but elegant one, in soft gold fabric, that fits him like a glove, and a cream-coloured cravat that his father carefully ties for him, as always. Mr Weasley is coming along tonight, to Harry’s greatest joy – one more reason for him to be confident about the evening. He feels safer knowing his father will be present, although there is not a single doubt in his mind that if Mr Weasley has decided to attend, it is strictly to keep an eye on him. Ginny is more beautiful than ever in a pale green dress, and she insists that Harry not only escort her into the ballroom but that he remains with her this time, and not wander off like he did last week. He can feel that she is nervous when they enter, and she immediately searches the crowd for Mr Longbottom, who has not yet arrived.

The Grangers soon find them, and they talk pleasantly until the dancing begins. Then the Bones join them, Susan taking Ginny’s hand and leading her aside to talk in private. Harry seizes the opportunity to talk with Susan’s father, who is an avid reader and always has something interesting to say on some subject or another. He is a short, chubby man with a constantly red face, who always has a glass of something clutched in his equally short and chubby fingers, but he is always kind to Harry, and eager to engage in conversation.

Eventually, Mr Longbottom arrives, unfortunately accompanied by his whole party, including Mr Snape. Harry greets them politely and resumes his conversation with Mr Bones. But although Mr Longbottom and the others drift away to greet acquaintances or to dance, Mr Snape lingers, clearly listening in to the conversation, which has drifted from the classics of Latin literature, to Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_.

“It is my favourite, I daresay,” Mr Bones affirms, in between two sips of the small glass of brandy he is holding. “Quite a lovely collection of stories.”

“I enjoyed them as well, but I’m afraid I can’t help but find them particularly sententious,” Harry admits, terribly aware of Mr Snape’s presence nearby, and feeling quite fidgety now. “Judgmental,” he adds when Mr Bones narrows his eyes in confusion. “Not to mention completely unjust.”

“Unjust? How so?”

“How so?” Harry repeats, surprised. “Young people are being pursued or abducted simply for being beautiful and for happening to catch the eye of a powerful god, when they have done nothing wrongful. And for refusing these advances and wanting to remain free, they are left with no other way out than to be transformed into vegetation, animals, or constellations. As if the pursued is at fault rather than the pursuer. And never is there anything said about them other than their beauty or purity or attractive dispositions,” he continues, quite intent now, in a feat of bravery, to convey a message directly to Mr Snape without talking to the man. “They have thoughts and dreams, but those never matter. They are always merely desired for their physical attributes, never for their mind or their character.”

Mr Bones is smiling now. “I admire your inquisitive mind, Harry. I must admit that I had never thought of it that way. You are an admirable young man. A true example that young people can possess both beauty and character! Do you not think so, Mr Snape?”

Harry turns sharply to find that the intruder has moved even closer while he was talking, so much so that he cannot be thought to be apart from the conversation any longer. If the man is surprised at being addressed at last, however, he does not show it.

“Indeed,” he drawls smoothly, to Harry’s complete and utter shock.

This shock, however, quickly turns into irritation. What is the man playing at? Harry wonders. Was it not enough to wound his pride before? Does he now intend to mock him?

“If you’ll excuse me,” Harry says shortly, maybe a little more rudely than he intended, before walking away towards a group composed of Seamus Finnigan and other people his age.

A little while later, while seated alone with Hermione and watching the dancers, he tells her about what has occurred. She admits that after the debate at supper, and after their conversation near the old mill, she has thought to keep an eye on Mr Snape so as to try, for herself, to make sense of the man’s character. She has thus observed the indiscreet eavesdropping from a distance.

“What do you think he meant by listening to my conversation with Mr Bones?” Harry asks, still very much upset at the man.

She remains contemplative for a moment before shrugging her shoulders, but he has a feeling that she is somewhat amused. “I think that is a question only Mr Snape could answer.”

He frowns at her. “You can be very useless as a friend when you want to be.”

This time she laughs. “To be honest, Harry, I believe he was only looking for a way to talk to you.”

Harry scoffs. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Can you not see it?” she asks after a moment, staring at him with incredulity.

“See what?”

She shakes her head this time, with something like exasperation. “I doubt he has any vile intentions towards you. Quite the opposite.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he grumbles moodily, “but if he does it again, I intend to let him know that I _see_ what he is doing! He means to mock me and demean me. I _know_ it.”

Hermione laughs softly, looking fondly at him before standing up. “Believe what you will. I know better than to try and reason with you. I’m going to find someone to dance with,” she declares before leaving.

* * *

If Severus agreed, earlier this week, to accompany Neville and Theodore to the Weasleys’, where Pansy and Astoria were visiting, it was entirely in the hopes of being fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of young Mr Weasley. He did not expect, however, to find him sitting in the parlour with the ladies. And he was entirely unprepared to find himself so speechless when they were, at last, introduced.

In hindsight, if he had known the events would unfold the way they ultimately did, he probably would have refused to come along. It was immediately evident that the young man had no desire to be in his presence, and if there was any doubt in Severus’ mind that his harsh words at the ball might not really have been overheard, all of them are now dismissed. For almost the full duration of his presence in that room, the boy had barely met his eyes. The young Omega only sat there, looking down, visibly nervous and shy, and smelling of fear and shame. None of which helped Severus feel any better at all. And if he had the faintest notion of how powerless he would find himself in the young man’s presence, Severus surely would not have gone. He was, and still is, filled with guilt, and longing to express some form of apology, but unable to find the words, the proper occasion, nor the courage to do so.

And that blasted cat. If Severus had known about _that_ , he _definitely_ would not have gone. His friends will never let him forget about this ridiculous turn of events. The whole ordeal was only worsened by the fact that the boy never returned to the parlour after disposing of the animal. And thus, Severus’ visit was rendered all but fruitless, and he was in the foulest mood for the rest of the day.

There is but one moment he holds onto. This moment when the boy finally had enough of his staring and raised his head, chin held high, to meet Severus’ gaze. Absolutely unnerved, Severus turned away, but the boy did not. And Severus allowed him to stare. It was only fair, he told himself, to let Mr Weasley seize him up for once, and he hoped this would send a clear message. He hoped the young Omega would understand that by averting his gaze so and allowing himself to be examined, Severus meant him no harm. Absolutely none. On the contrary.

From the first moment, on that very first night, when their eyes met across the crowded ballroom, Harry Weasley has been an object of interest in Severus’ eyes, no matter how much he might try to deny it. Even before he so clumsily attempted to make Neville believe that he thought the boy hardly had a good feature to his face, Severus had already admitted to himself that he was, in fact, uncommonly beautiful. And he is the only reason why Severus has decided to subject himself to another one of these intolerable rural assemblies Hogsmeade holds nearly every week during the summer months.

And as the night passes and Severus makes every effort to be close to the boy, he realises that Mr Weasley’s beauty is rendered even more compelling by the intelligence and fierceness of those incredible eyes. Other realisations soon succeed this one, equally mortifying. The boy is clever and witty and well-read. And Severus is soon forced to acknowledge that he not only possesses a pretty face, but that his figure is light and pleasing, and that despite his manners not being those of the fashionable world, Severus is caught by their easy playfulness and unconscious grace. And if he attends to the boy’s conversations with others to the point of being considered indiscreet and rude, it is only because he longs, more than anything, to know him better.

He should just ask the boy to dance, Severus thinks as he watches him sitting alone on the other side of the room. If only he could just find it in himself to walk over and ask him to dance. He is too engrossed in his thoughts to perceive that Dr Granger is now standing next to him.

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, don’t you think, Mr Snape?” the man says pleasantly, regarding the dancers with deep fondness. “There is nothing like dancing, after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of civilised society.”

“As you say,” Severus concedes. As much as he despises this town, and as reticent as he presently is to engage in conversation, he must admit that he harbours a certain respect for this man, whose reputation is known even in London. “Although it is also popular amongst the less civilised societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”

Dr Granger chuckles at this statement. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he adds, looking on as Neville dances with a young lady Severus has never seen, or perhaps simply never paid attention to. “And I have no doubt that you must be adept in the art yourself, Mr Snape.”

Severus barely represses a scoff. “I _never_ dance, sir.”

“Never?”

“As little as possible.”

Dr Granger raises an amused eyebrow. “Do you not think dancing would pay compliment to this place?”

“It is a compliment I never pay to any place if I can avoid it,” Severus drawls.

The man only nods, watching the dancers silently for a long moment. If Severus hopes he will be left alone, however, he is strongly deceived.

“You own a house in London, do you not?” Dr Granger asks after a time, but his voice is softer now, thoughtful. “I once had a house there myself, but I was convinced I would not be happy there for long. And so, I decided to come here. I understand you regard this town with a certain disdain, Mr Snape, but I assure you it has its charms. And its hidden gems.”

“Hidden gems?” Severus finds himself repeating, in a tone he means mocking but fails to make so.

“Yes,” the man says with a somewhat conspiratorial smile. “And Mr Harry Weasley is one of these gems. One I believe you have noticed already.”

“I would not presume to understand what you are implying–” Severus begins, quite irritated now, but the doctor completely ignores this.

“He is not truly a Weasley, did you know?” he interrupts.

“I had a notion,” Severus admits, for the boy looks like neither of his parents, nor like his sister.

“Many years ago,” Dr Granger recalls pensively, “the most unpleasant man passed through Hogsmeade on his way to London. He had with him a little boy, no older than five years old. A little boy who, for reasons known to this man alone, was the object of much hatred on his part. One day, in the middle of the town square, that horrible man struck this little boy, in full view of everyone present. A number of men, myself included, confronted this stranger, demanding to know why he had been so violent with the boy, who had clearly done nothing to merit such punishment. He was filled with fury. He proceeded to explain to us that the boy was an Omega, that he had no value, that he was a hindrance. And that it was none of our business what he did to him.”

The doctor is silent for a while, observing the dancers, and no doubt the young man sitting by himself across the room.

“Arthur Weasley would have none of it. He took that little boy in his arms and carried him away. The poor child was bleeding, trembling, terrified. My own daughter was around his age and I remember thinking then that if _she_ had suffered such a strike, she would have been inconsolable, shrieking and sobbing. But from that boy, not a sound. And from this reaction alone I knew that it was a regular occurrence for him. At such a young age, can you imagine? Arthur already had _seven_ children of his own, but he took in that boy and raised him like his son. And quite the admirable young man that boy has become, don’t you think?” the doctor finishes with a smile, finally turning to Severus.

“What do you mean by telling me this story?” he asks the man.

Dr Granger’s tone, when he speaks again, is almost scolding. “Only that you should put aside your pride, Mr Snape, and ask the boy to dance. He deserves your attention if anyone in this world ever did.”

At that moment, because the world is cruel in this way, and because there is never any respite for men such as Severus, the boy in question happens to pass by, having seemingly left his lonely bench while they were talking. Dr Granger accosts him at once, gently taking his hand.

“My dear Harry, you look radiant. Why are you not dancing tonight?” he asks kindly before turning to Severus. “Mr Snape, you must allow me to present this young man to you as a very desirable partner. You _cannot_ refuse to dance with him, I am sure.”

Severus, when so unexpectedly presented with the boy’s hand, after having berated himself all night, is certainly not unwilling to receive it. But the boy, however, instantly withdraws his hand and steps back, blushing quite beautifully.

“Sir, I have no intention of dancing,” Mr Weasley declares, barely looking at Severus. “Please do not suppose that I moved this way in order to look for a partner. I was merely heading outside for a breath of fresh air,” he adds in a rush.

“Mr Snape would surely oblige, Harry,” the doctor protests.

“Mr Snape is all politeness,” the boy says, almost coldly, before taking his leave.

Dr Granger shakes his head before throwing Severus an exasperated look. “You certainly complement each other in stubbornness,” he remarks before walking away.

Severus, his heart pounding in his chest, can only stand there like a fool, pretending to himself that he is not absolutely devastated by the way the boy withdrew his hand so abruptly as soon as he reached out to take it.

A hand seizes his arm, and he turns swiftly to see Pansy next to him, a knowing look on her face.

“You seem very deep in your thoughts, Severus. And I believe I can guess the subject of them.”

“I should imagine not,” he snaps.

She does not react to his rudeness, but regards the dancers with disdain as she continues, “You are considering how unbearable it would be to spend any more evenings in this manner, in such company, and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I have never before been more annoyed. The insipidity and the noise. The self-importance of these people. Oh, what I would give to hear what _you_ think about them without restraint.”

“I assure you your conjecture is entirely wrong,” he says dryly. “My mind is not set on the disagreeable tonight. On the contrary.”

She raises a surprised eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I have been pondering on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in a beautiful face can bestow,” he declares, almost taking pleasure in her disbelief.

“Whoever are you talking about?”

“Mr Harry Weasley,” he reveals, unable to keep this secret to himself any longer.

The look of pure surprise on her face is almost enough to make Severus laugh. “Mr Harry Weasley!” she hisses with awe. “Why, Severus, I am all astonishment! How long has he been a favourite of yours? And tell me, when am I to congratulate you?”

He scoffs, freeing his arm from her tightening grip. “That is _exactly_ the question I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is so unrestrained. It jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in barely a moment!”

She shakes her head, filled with disbelief still, but now smiling brightly. “You are so usually reserved in your affections! I can only trust you are being truthful about this. I shall then consider the matter absolutely settled,” she says eagerly. “I myself find the young man _fascinating_. Astoria is already enamoured, and Neville has expressed his surprise at how well educated and intelligent he is. A perfect match for you. And you would have the most _charming_ mother-in-law indeed,” she finishes with a shrill laugh.

He listens with perfect indifference as she rambles on, entertaining all manner of schemes to attempt to discover if the young man might return his affections. All the while, his eyes roam the room in search of the boy, who is nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ is a narrative poem originally written in Latin in 8 A.D. centred mainly on myths of transformations taken from Greek mythology.


	4. becoming

* * *

  
**\- 4 -**

**becoming**

* * *

BECOMING, _parti. a._ (from _become_.)

That which pleases by an elegant propriety; graceful.

\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

  
The sky has been pouring rain since dawn. Shortly after breakfast, Harry finds himself back in his bedroom, rummaging the shelves in search of something interesting to read. But he is in one of those moods where nothing strikes his fancy, and he ends up sitting by the window, watching the rain fall. It comes down hard and ruthless like needles, noisy, almost violent, but Harry finds it soothing. He inhales deeply, the air filled with the pleasant smell of wet earth and grass. There’s a fresh breeze underneath it all, and a rumble of thunder far away somewhere, distant and deep.

He could always write to Charlie. He is just _dying_ to tell him about the disagreeable Mr Snape and all the events of the last week, but it would be more proper for him to wait for Charlie’s reply to his last letter, and not risk sending his brother more than he has time to answer. It generally takes ten days for letters to reach Toulouse, and another ten days for the reply to arrive. And Charlie is not always well enough to answer immediately upon reception – sometimes it takes him a few days even to write one letter. To Harry’s greatest dismay, they usually only manage to write once a month. His heart aches every time he thinks about Charlie all alone in that room, waiting for nothing but the days to succeed each other, hoping for letters and news. With no one to talk to.

Hedwig jumps up next to him, seeking caresses, and Harry strokes her reluctantly. “You’re still not entirely forgiven,” he mumbles as she pushes her head into his hand.

At least he can console himself that yesterday’s ball was a definite improvement over last week’s. Talking to Hermione has also helped curb his wallowing – he does not feel like crawling under the earth anymore. In fact, he is more determined than ever to show everyone that it does not matter in the least what they decide to think of him. He will never again allow himself to react so rashly, so emotionally, no matter what he overhears. He will not let them see that he is hurt. If he must sit alone, he will sit alone and be gracious about it. And if ever someone asks him to dance, he will simply accept and be gracious about that as well. _Except_ if that someone is Mr Snape. Harry intends to hold his promise – to Hermione and to himself, most of all – to never _ever_ dance with that man.

Even if Mr Snape has not proceeded to insult him further, Harry still considers his presence an encumbrance. He wishes the man would simply leave Hogsmeade at last. What could he possibly hope to gain by staying here, in a town he so clearly loathes? Why would he subject himself to the torture of remaining amongst people he so evidently looks down on? Does he take pleasure in making others suffer his presence? Harry believes that could very much be the case. Mr Snape is just the sort of man who would want to inflict his unpleasant company on as many innocent people as possible, if only to make them as miserable and unhappy as he is. _I doubt he has any vile intentions towards you_ , Hermione said last night. _Quite the opposite_. Whatever did she mean by that? Oh, he knows what she implied, but _why_ she would ever believe such a thing eludes him.

If Mr Snape would just leave, everything would be so much easier. Harry is usually apt at reading people and understanding their behaviour and their intentions, but everything about Mr Snape’s character confuses him. When it comes to that man, he finds himself completely befuddled. Mr Snape says Harry is not handsome enough for him, implies that he is unworthy of his attention, and yet the man stares at him constantly, to the point of causing discomfort. And yet he follows him, listens to his conversations with others, continuously lurks. What has Harry ever done to warrant such behaviour on his part? He does his best to ignore the man, to not prompt any more ill words from him, and _this_ is his reward for such docility? _I believe he was only looking for a way to talk to you_ , Hermione said, which seems absolutely ridiculous to him. He knows what the man _really_ is up to. He is only prowling in hopes that Harry will say or do something he can remark on to embarrass him further. Oh, Harry should tell him what he thinks directly to his face! If the man ever insults him or does something improper again, Harry will _certainly_ tell him how unpleasant and obnoxious he is! He does not care that the man is an Alpha, Harry will tell him!

He moans in frustration, knowing very well he would _never_ be able to say anything of the sort, especially to a man such as the frowning, glaring, holier than thou Mr Snape. 

“You could have scratched him, at least,” he reproaches, stroking Hedwig’s throat while she purrs in bliss.

What a long, boring day this will be. Nothing to write and nothing to read. If he goes downstairs, where Ginny and his mother are sewing, he risks getting forced to join in, and he absolutely loathes it. All he ever managed to accomplish is that dreadful cat cushion even Hedwig ignores, and he pricked himself enough that time to leave bloodstains on the fabric. But his mother insists he learns _lady activities_ , just in case he finds a _more_ _traditional_ _Alpha_. Harry had once replied that if this Alpha wanted someone to sew, he could very well find a wife and leave him alone, or better yet, learn it himself. To which his mother had snapped at him to stop being insolent and go to his room.

He represses a yawn, letting out an irritated huff of breath instead. It is not entirely true that he has nothing left to read… There is _something_ , as much as he has tried to forget about it, to _not_ think about it. There is always the book under the floorboards.

Harry turns to stare at the bed, as if he could see right through it and see the floor, and the book underneath it. For nearly two weeks now he has wondered about the fate of poor Lorenzo. Will he manage to escape, will he be set free, or will that brute Riccardo keep him captive indefinitely now that they have mated, forgetting all about the ransom? No, surely Lorenzo will escape! He cannot possibly spend the rest of the book trapped there, at this Alpha’s mercy, with no way out! There _must_ be more to the story! But Harry cannot possibly know unless he reads more of it…

He listens intently at the sounds of the house. Nothing. His father is probably reading in his study, with his feet propped up on the desk, or seated more comfortably in the old leather armchair by the window. Ginny and his mother are still in the parlour, sewing and chatting. They will be at it for hours.

Harry walks over to the bed furtively, laying on his stomach to rummage underneath and gently lift the loose floorboards to retrieve the book. It is still the same small, innocent-looking tome, but he looks at it in an entirely different way now that he knows what it contains. Instead of settling on the bed, he remains seated on the floor. This way, if he hears the stairs creak, he will have plenty of time to stuff the book back into its hiding place before he can be seen reading it. At once fearful and thrilled, hands already sweaty, Harry finds the page where he left off…

When he is finally penetrated, Lorenzo cries out in bliss, begging for more, pleading for Riccardo’s knot, claiming he will die without it. Riccardo pounds into him, crazed with lust, muttering the filthiest things, pressing his mouth to Lorenzo’s throat and almost sinking his teeth in. Harry stops breathing. Riccardo would never dare! Surely, he would _never_ dare! Lorenzo would never let him! But Lorenzo is begging for it, begging to be knotted and claimed. Begging for Riccardo to take him as his own, to fill him with his pups.

Harry’s heart is stuck in his throat and his face burning with shame as he turns the page, enraptured and scared. The scene stretches and stretches, the descriptions awfully detailed, each sentence more revolting than the one before it, but he cannot omit a single word. The Omega’s thighs are slick and wet, his hole loose and gaping, the sounds of coupling described as nearly deafening in the small house. The Alpha’s large member reaches places so deep inside Lorenzo’s body that he cannot help but tremble and cry out with want. Finally, Riccardo’s knot swells and Lorenzo moans in pleasure, sobbing and begging to be bitten. Riccardo holds him tightly, mouth pressed to his bonding gland but not sinking his teeth. Muttering filthy praise, but not biting. Not claiming.

This happens many more times during the next few days. They mate over and over until the fever and the longing has passed and they are both exhausted and somewhat satiated. Harry estimates that this heated coupling takes a good half of the whole book. The following scenes, thankfully, are not quite as detailed as the first one, but still enough so that he often has trouble breathing as he reads the words, and a strange sort of shiver sometimes creeps around his insides. At the end of it, Riccardo is gentler than before, and he carries Lorenzo to a small pond in the woods so they can bathe. Lorenzo is filled with shame. For what he let the Alpha do to him, for the words he said during these fits of passion, but most of all, for not being good enough to claim properly.

He sleeps for most of the following days, not only tired but also filled with humiliation and misery, and when he finally wakes for good, Riccardo gruffly tells him to get dressed and announces that he is taking him home at last. Lorenzo silently obeys, and they get on a horse heading back to the city. He starts crying, begging Riccardo to keep him, to not send him back to his father. He insists that no one else will have him now, that he wants to stay and live in that small house with him. Riccardo remains silent throughout, his face set in a scowl.

He leaves Lorenzo outside the city to walk home by himself and disappears back into the woods on his horse. Lorenzo can only watch him leave, heartbroken and filled with longing. Left with nowhere else to go, he returns to his father’s house, sobbing and dishevelled and still smelling the Alpha on his skin. He is not greeted well. The marquis first seems surprised to see him, and then turns angry. Lorenzo quickly understands what has occurred – his father refused to pay the ransom, thinking he would be rid of him, and not only has Lorenzo returned, but he is now unfit to marry. He is yelled at and then locked into his room, where he curls up on his bed and refuses to eat the food that they bring him. He wants _nothing_ , only for his Alpha to return. He only wants Riccardo. He will die without Riccardo…

Harry huffs, snapping the book shut. There is still a good number of pages left, but he has had enough of this nonsense! He stuffs the book back under the floorboards, out of sight.

What an idiot Lorenzo is! How could he feel this way? How could he be so weak as to let himself believe that he belongs to that Alpha? Has he no mind of his own? How could he let himself waste away for a man who clearly wants nothing to do with him, for a man who has used him and rejected him? How could he let himself feel _anything_ for someone so cold and loveless?

Is that what it is like for Omegas? Harry wonders, hugging his knees as he listens to the rain fall. Is that what it will be like for him as well? Will mating make him lose all sense of himself? Will he belong to the one who first takes him and then become nothing more than possession? And if, like Riccardo, that man rejects him, will Harry’s nature force him to waste away?

Harry rests his chin on his knees, breathing deeply in and out, a pulsing ball of fear rapidly forming in his stomach. As if she knows – and perhaps she does – Hedwig jumps down from the windowsill and comes to him, purring and rubbing herself against his legs.

“I will never let it happen,” he whispers to her. “Never.”

On Monday morning, as they are seated at breakfast, Poppy interrupts Mrs Weasley’s usual diatribe to announce that a note has arrived. Harry’s mother is all astonished, when she holds out her hand to take it, to see the maid deliver it into her daughter’s instead. Ginny first hesitates, then opens it curiously. Harry, who is sitting next to her, leans in to read over her shoulder.

“Well?” their mother demands impatiently. “Who is it from? What is it about? What does it say? _Ginny,_ make haste and tell us!”

“It’s from Miss Parkinson,” Ginny announces before reading it aloud. “ _My dear friend, if you are not so compassionate as to spend the afternoon with Astoria and I, we shall be in danger of dying of ennui, for our cousin and the gentlemen are to be away all day. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. Yours ever, Pansy Parkinson_.”

“Away all day!” Mrs Weasley complains at once. “That is _very_ unlucky. Very, very unlucky, dear. And yet you cannot refuse! You _must_ go, so that Miss Parkinson and Mrs Nott tell their cousin what good company you are!”

“Can I have the carriage?” Ginny inquires, folding the note back carefully. Harry can tell that she is nervous about visiting. Perhaps more so about the prospect of being alone with the two ladies. Mrs Nott is not so bad – Harry would not be opposed to spending an afternoon in her company – but he recoils at the thought of being in Miss Parkinson’s presence for such a long time.

Their mother shakes her head vigorously. “Oh no, certainly not! You will go on horseback.”

Ginny can barely hide her dread. “On horseback? But Mamma, what will they think?”

“It seems very likely to rain later,” Mrs Weasley explains. “And if it does and you have arrived on horseback, then you will not be able to return, and you will have to stay all night.”

“All night?” Harry repeats, appalled. “What if they simply offer to send her home?”

“Oh, but the gentlemen will have the carriage if they are away.”

Mr Weasley chuckles as he finishes the last of his breakfast. “You have it all thought out, don’t you, dear?”

“Perhaps they went on horseback,” Harry suggests. “Then the carriage will be available.”

“Why would they go on horseback when it is _clearly_ going to rain?” his mother counters. “And do you _really_ believe a man as proud as Mr Snape would go anywhere on horseback?”

“I _do_. In fact, I believe he is absolutely the kind of man to think he looks very grand on a horse. I believe he must go _everywhere_ on horseback,” Harry insists, intent to irritate his mother enough that she will renounce her idiotic plans and just let Ginny have the carriage.

She narrows her eyes at him. “If they _did_ decide to go on horseback, there will be no horses left for the carriage, and so they cannot offer to send her home.”

“Perhaps they have spare horses.”

“How could they have so many horses when they’ve just arrived?” she demands shrilly.

“You don’t _know_!” Harry protests. “Maybe Mr Longbottom is fond of horses and insisted to bring them all at once! Perhaps he has ten horses. And perhaps he has two carriages!”

His mother scoffs. “Ten horses and two carriages?!” she nearly shouts. “Don’t be absurd, Harry! Mr Longbottom is not the king of England!”

“Perhaps Mr Nott has brought his own carriage then,” Harry reiterates. “Or Mr Snape. I imagine so many people will have quite a lot of luggage. Surely it would not fit in only one carriage. Perhaps they have another carriage in addition to Mr Longbottom’s. Perhaps they have three! How could _you_ know?”

“They could have a hundred carriages and I would _not change my mind!_ ” Mrs Weasley declares, her voice shrill and high in a tone Harry recognises as a clear sign that if he does not stop speaking now, he will be sent to his room for the rest of the day. He is almost disappointed. He would have continued on and on and on. He was already preparing a good speech about the amount of luggage needed for five people and the average size of carriages.

“I would much rather go with the carriage, Mamma,” Ginny insists softly. “Please.”

“Your father cannot spare more than one horse, dear. The others are all wanted in the field, are they not, Arthur? Arthur!”

“Yes?” Mr Weasley asks distractedly from behind his paper.

“The horses are wanted in the field, are they not?”

“They are wanted in the field much more often than I can _get_ them in the field,” he remarks.

“That settles it! I will get Hagrid to ready _one_ of the horses for you and then we will find you something appropriate to wear, something that will impress the ladies!” she announces before pointing a threatening finger at Harry. “And if I hear _one more word_ about horses or carriages from _you_ , you will regret it!” she declares before leaving.

Harry throws Ginny a deeply apologetic look which she graces with a soft smile, disappointed at the outcome, but appreciative of his attempt to save her pride. They both know there is no more use arguing with their mother this morning.

Ginny is thus forced to go on horseback, and Mrs Weasley stands on the porch to watch her leave, staring at the sky and rejoiced at the sight of the dark clouds slowly but surely heading for town. Her hopes are soon answered. Ginny has not been gone long before it starts raining hard, and to her greatest delight, the storm continues the whole day without intermission. When night falls, Ginny still has not returned.

“Oh, I _knew_ it!” she repeats for the hundredth time as they all retire to bed. “What wonderful ideas I have! Now she must to spend the whole night under Mr Longbottom’s roof! I just knew it!”

Early the next day, a footman of Mr Longbottom’s arrives with a message. Harry, who happens to be leaving the house just as the man knocks, is the one to receive it. He reads it over quickly before storming back into the dining room, where his parents are still seated.

“A note from Ginny!” he says, unable to hide his anger, and proceeds to read it for them to hear. “ _I find myself very unwell this morning, which I suppose is to be expected from my getting thoroughly wet yesterday on my way here_. _My kind friends will not allow me to return home until I am better. They also insisted on calling for Dr Granger, therefore please do not be alarmed if you should hear that he has seen me. Except a sore throat, a headache and a slight fever, there is not much the matter with me_ – This is ridiculous, Mamma!” Harry finishes, throwing the letter onto the table and staring accusingly at his mother.

Mr Weasley is casting her an equally cold look. “If our daughter has a dangerous fit of illness and dies, it will be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr Longbottom and under _your_ orders, Molly.”

His wife waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, people do not die of colds!” she insists. “She will be taken good care of. And if she must remain with them a few days, it is all for the better. _Much_ better than I could have hoped! I would go and see her if we were not missing a horse for the carriage,” she adds.

“ _I_ will go see her,” Harry announces moodily before the conversation can once again turn into an argument about horses and carriages.

“Harry, we cannot spare the–”

“Oh, forget about the horses!” he says, annoyed. “I can walk.”

She looks thoroughly offended at this, and she clutches suddenly at her own throat like she does whenever he makes a bold statement she utterly disagrees with. “ _Walk?_ How can you be so silly? You cannot walk all the way there!”

“I have perfectly functional legs. I assure you–”

“It would not be proper!”

He narrows his eyes. “If you considered it proper enough to make Ginny ride there on horseback, I can very well walk!” he snaps.

“But it will take you over an hour!”

“I can cut through the woods. It will be much faster.”

She gapes at him. “Through the woods? Can you hear yourself? _Absolute nonsense!_ You will not be fit to be seen when you get there!”

“I shall be fit enough to see Ginny, which is all I want,” he concludes. “I shall be back by dinner.”

She calls out after him in protest as he leaves the house, but he pays her no mind and is already a good distance away by the time she emerges onto the porch to yell at him some more.

Harry walks fast, keeping up a good pace, determined to arrive as soon as possible. He hops over the fence as he always does, although this time there is a splatter of mud when he lands on the grass, and the soil squelches under his feet as he keeps walking. The morning is hot and terribly humid from all the heavy rain, and once or twice he finds himself questioning his decision to avoid taking the road. His feet are already wet, and he hasn’t even reached the thicket. But the damage is done now, so he decides to soldier on.

At least there is shade when he breaches the treeline, but the undergrowth is thick and the small path that used to be there is now overgrown with young trees and shrubbery. Branches and brambles catch at Harry’s clothes and hair, and twice he must remove handfuls of prickly, dried-up thistles stuck to his waistcoat and trousers. When he emerges from the woods, he finally finds himself within view of the house, but there is still the moor to cross, full of small puddles and patches of muddy grass that he tries to avoid as well as he can. By the time he finally reaches the looming manor, his legs are weary, his shoes and trousers dirty, and he is quite breathless. After carefully trying to wipe some of the dirt from his feet in a patch of grass, Harry rings the bell.

He is shown into a lovely parlour where Mr Longbottom and his friends are seemingly finishing a late breakfast. They turn in surprise at his entrance, and from their faces, Harry is suddenly aware of how dreadful he might look. Mrs Nott’s eyes widen upon seeing him and Miss Parkinson’s features form an expression of unmistakable astonishment. As for Mr Snape, who is unfortunately present, he stands so abruptly from the table that he nearly knocks his chair over, and he remains rooted to the spot, staring at Harry, as he constantly does. Mr Longbottom, however, immediately comes forward to greet him.

“Mr Weasley, what a pleasant surprise!” he exclaims.

“Good morning. Please forgive my interruption,” Harry begins, but Mr Longbottom will have none of it.

“Oh, it is no interruption at all! You are very welcome in my home anytime. We have just finished eating!”

Mrs Nott is smiling at him amicably now while her husband stuffs the last of his food into his mouth, uncaring of what might be happening around him. Mr Snape is still standing there, staring impassively at Harry. As for Miss Parkinson, the thorough look of surprise on her face has turned into one resembling disdain.

Harry decides to ignore them all and to look strictly at Mr Longbottom. “I received word that my sister is unwell and wanted to visit at once. Forgive me for not sending word beforehand.”

“My goodness, were you attacked by gypsies on the way here?” Miss Parkinson finally asks. “Are you hurt? Should we call for the doctor to come back?”

Harry shifts on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable, deeply tempted to snap at her for her rudeness. “I am well, I assure you,” he says calmly, nervous under their stares. “I walked through the woods. I find it is much faster than taking the road.”

She gapes at him. “You walked through the woods?” she repeats disbelievingly. “All the way from your house? By yourself? Through the woods?” She then looks to the others and laughs quite mockingly. “I believe I have _never_ heard anything of the sort–”

“Forgive my cousin,” Mr Longbottom interrupts. “She is used to a comfortable and indolent existence and has no tolerance for the outdoors, or any sort of activity that requires an effort on her part, for that matter. But please, allow me to escort you to your sister. I assure you she is being taken very good care of. Dr Granger was just here earlier. He has left some medicine for her, but he assured us she mostly needs rest. He said he would visit your parents later to inform them of her condition.”

Harry throws one last look into the parlour before allowing Mr Longbottom to lead him away. Miss Parkinson is muttering something into Mrs Nott’s ear, with a smirk he finds most nasty. Mr Nott has already forgotten about the interruption – if he has even noticed it – and is now talking about a racehorse he is thinking of acquiring, although none of his friends seem to be listening. As for Mr Snape, he is still standing next to his chair, and watches them leave without a word. Thoroughly annoyed, Harry wonders if he will sit back down once they are gone or if he will just keep standing there all day.

The room in which Ginny has been settled is one of the best in the house, Mr Longbottom assures Harry, who does not doubt it for a second. From what he can see, however, all the rooms seem to be uncommonly beautiful, and he is certain that to be settled in any one of them is perfectly acceptable. He is told that his sister has slept fitfully, and though now awake, she is quite feverish and not well enough to leave the bed. The room is lovely indeed. Soft light is coming in through the pale drapes, but it remains dark enough for someone who is sick to sleep comfortably. There is a young maid rearranging Ginny’s pillows when they enter.

“Harry!” his sister gasps, quite surprised at seeing him. “You came!”

“Of course, I came.”

He settles at her bedside at once, where a chair is conveniently placed, and he cannot help but frown at the sight of her. She truly looks exhausted, her brow and cheeks flushed with fever. If he did not trust Dr Granger, he would be tempted to believe that she is suffering from a much worse illness than a simple cold. And yet, even sick and tired, she looks beautiful as always. Her long red hair has been carefully braided, bright against the paleness of the pillow.

“Your brother has taken it upon himself to see that we are caring for you properly, Miss Weasley,” Mr Longbottom explains with a gracious smile. “And he is welcome to stay for as long as he likes.”

Ginny smiles back at him weakly. “You are too kind. I do appreciate the company.”

Mr Longbottom’s smile widens, charming as always. “It is my pleasure, _truly_. We shall leave you two then. Please ring the bell if you need anything, Miss Weasley. Anything at all. I insist,” he adds before leaving the room with a polite nod, followed by the maid.

“Oh, Harry!” Ginny cries out softly once they are alone, grabbing for his hand. “I am so happy to see you! How I wished for a visit, but I did not dare ask.” She rests her head heavily on the pillow, looking so relieved at seeing him, so comforted by his presence that Harry feels his heart tighten, and his anger towards their mother renewed.

“Why would you not ask?”

She clears her throat before answering, and from the sound Harry can tell it must be incredibly sore. “I did not want to be an inconvenience. And I did not want anyone to believe I was unhappy here. Not that I am, of course. I am quite comfortable, and they are so kind. But it is not like being at home.”

Harry nods reassuringly. “I understand. I will stay the day, if you want.”

Her lips tremble, as if she is fighting to hold back tears. “Oh _please_ ,” she mumbles. “Dr Granger says I am to remain for a few days at least. Please, will you stay with me? I know you don’t like Miss Parkinson or Mr Snape, but I–”

“I will stay,” he interrupts gently. “As long as you want me to.”

“Oh, thank you,” she whispers weakly, letting out a long breath of relief.

“I would not be able to live with myself if I left. You look on the verge of death.”

She smiles softly. “I am certain I look much worse than I feel. You shouldn’t worry.”

Harry shakes his head. “Mamma is quite ecstatic about this, you know.”

She shakes her head, looking terribly tired still, but she grins nonetheless. “I am certain she is. A small consolation perhaps.” Then she frowns, peering at him closely. “What happened to you? There are leaves in your hair.”

“Oh, since I could not get a horse, I cut through the woods to get here faster,” he explains with a shrug. “Terrible idea, in hindsight. My shoes are soaked through. I thought Miss Parkinson would faint when she saw me.” He mimics the look on her face when he arrived, loosening his jaw and widening his eyes comically.

Ginny giggles then erupts into a fit of coughing. “Don’t make me laugh,” she moans afterwards, but she’s smiling widely.

“She scolded me almost as well as Mamma,” Harry adds.

“She is not so bad as you think,” Ginny protests, still smiling, still holding onto his hand. “She has lent me one of her nightshirts and kept me company until late last night. She is very kind to me.”

“To _you_ , perhaps.”

“She asked me about you yesterday,” Ginny adds as if she has just now remembered. “She asked if you were being courted.”

Harry feels the blush spread all the way down his neck. “She did _not_!” he hisses. “What did you tell her?”

Ginny coughs a little then shrugs. “I told her all about it. How your heart is already taken, and you are desperately waiting for Cormac McLaggen to propose–”

“You did not!” Harry exclaims, mortified.

Ginny bursts out laughing, then starts coughing again, almost violently, the horrified look on his face only making her laugh harder.

“You are delusional!” he snaps while she continues wheezing, but he cannot help laughing as well. “We should call for Dr Granger again. You are clearly losing your mind!”

When she keeps coughing, he pours her some of the water left on the nightstand, then helps her settle back into her pillows, rearranging the covers around her.

“What do you think she meant by asking you that?” he asks after a while, feeling his dislike of Miss Parkinson growing beyond measure.

Ginny clears her throat painfully. “I think she is generally of a curious nature.”

“She is a despicable gossip, you mean.”

His sister shakes her head. “Once you dislike someone there really is no changing your opinion, is there? Perhaps she means to find you a good match.”

“Oh, she can very well mind her own business!” Harry scoffs furiously.

Ginny looks at him silently for a time, fondly now. “I am so happy you came,” she repeats, reaching for his hand again.

“You should sleep,” he says softly, lacing their fingers together. “I will stay right here. I promise you.”

Ginny finally dozes off, clearly not sleeping as deeply as she should. Harry remains by her side as promised, trying to settle more comfortably in the chair and gazing about the room, admiring the bedframe and the tapestries. He regrets not having brought a change of clothes for her – or for himself, for that matter – and some books to read.

What could they be talking about downstairs in the small parlour? They must be mocking his impromptu arrival, and his appearance, most of all. Miss Parkinson is surely going on at length about it. Harry chuckles softly, wondering whether Mr Snape is still standing there like a loon, staring at the empty doorway. What a strange man… At least he had the decency not to comment on Harry’s appearance further, not to humiliate him in front of the others. But from the way Mr Longbottom commented on his cousin’s behaviour earlier, Harry feels like he might have defended him if an attack from Mr Snape had occurred. Mr Longbottom is too kind and too proper to let a guest be insulted under his roof. Harry can only question his choice of companions – excluding Mrs Nott, of course.

Miss Parkinson joins them a little while later, carrying a tray with some warm tea and cakes. She kindly helps Ginny sit up enough to be able to eat and then moves a second chair near the bed. Harry mostly listens as the two ladies chat pleasantly, Miss Parkinson asking Ginny about seamstresses in the area, and then telling her all about the wonderful hatmaker she found in Paris. She seems a completely different woman from the one Harry saw upon his arrival. Her manners are gentle and graceful, and there is not a hint of mockery on her face now when she looks at him. What could she mean by asking Ginny if he is being courted? he wonders again. Why would she want to know that? What business is this of hers?

“Mr Weasley,” she tells him amiably, “the carriage is at your disposal whenever you wish to return home. I would not dream of having you walk through the woods again.”

Harry almost scoffs. She says this so kindly now, as if she had not outwardly mocked him about it a few hours before. “I was thinking I might remain here while my sister recovers,” he tells her, “if it is not an inconvenience to you or your cousin–”

To his surprise, Miss Parkinson seems elated and she interrupts him at once, her dark eyes shining with joy. “Oh, it is no inconvenience at all! On the contrary! I am certain my cousin would be happy to have you with us. As am I. I shall send a footman to your home at once and inform your parents that you will stay the night. Should I have him fetch a change of clothes for you both as well?” If she refers to his muddied trousers, there is no trace of it in her manners.

“That would be most kind of you,” Harry admits honestly, trying not to let his scepticism or suspicions show. “If you could also send my mother back the horse, I would be most grateful,” he adds on second thought.

Just as Miss Parkinson is leaving, Mrs Nott enters, holding a small pile of books. “I took the liberty of rummaging Neville’s _abysmal_ library,” she says with a laugh. “I thought perhaps you would enjoy one of these.”

Harry takes them from her hands to look at the spines: _Othello_ , Dante’s _Inferno_ , _The Aeneid_ , _Aesop’s Fables, The Decameron_.

“These are the only ones that sparked any interest,” Mrs Nott explains. “The collection mostly comprises of books on botany and horticulture. With a surprisingly large section on nautical warfare,” she finishes with a small shrug.

Harry is thoroughly touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Mrs Nott. You should not have gone through so much trouble.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all. Your sister mentioned that she enjoys hearing you read aloud,” she adds, smiling at Ginny. “I thought it would be a pleasant way for you to pass the afternoon. I hope one of these will do.”

“My brother will stay the night,” Ginny announces. “And tomorrow as well.”

Mrs Nott seems absolutely pleased to hear this. “Oh, splendid! You will eat with us tonight then, Mr Weasley? The new pianoforte has just arrived a few days ago, and your sister tells us you play remarkably well.”

Harry looks darkly at Ginny, who guffaws. “My sister is only trying to embarrass me. I assure you I play very poorly. I know but two songs, and they hardly deserve to be called such.”

Mrs Nott chuckles at the two of them. “It is unfortunate. None of us here possess any musical talent to speak of, although Pansy would like to think herself gifted. Do not tell her I said that,” she adds conspiratorially.

“Ginny plays very well. I am certain she will gladly play for you when she is better.”

“Certainly,” Ginny says at once. “I very much enjoy it.”

“I look forward to hearing you. I will let you rest now. Please let me know if I can do anything,” she declares before leaving.

“They are both very kind, are they not?” Ginny asks once they are alone.

Harry sighs heavily, setting the books on the small table. “Do not try to change the subject! How could you tell them I play well?” he says moodily. “Why would you want to humiliate me so?”

“Do not snap at me, I am sick,” she says with a pout.

Harry shakes his head but feels himself smiling regardless. “I might just strangle you in your sleep.”

She only laughs, reaching for his hand again. “I am happy that we can spend so much time together,” she says softly. “I know you are lonely, now that Ron and the twins are gone. And I know that you miss Charlie most of all. But I get very lonely sometimes as well, and I often wish we were closer, you and I.”

Harry sighs. “I have been a very poor brother, I’m afraid,” he declares.

“And I, a very poor sister. But we can remedy that, I hope.”

Harry smiles at her. “I believe we can.”

Ginny not being very hungry for dinner, they are served a light meal that they eat in the room. Harry reads her a few stories from the _Decameron_ , but she falls asleep in the middle of one, and he picks up another book from the pile. The room darkens around him as he reads, and when the maid enters with some candles, Mrs Nott is with her. She informs Harry that the footman has arrived some time ago with clothes carefully packed by the Weasleys’ maid, and that the next room has been prepared for him. Almost eagerly, she asks if, since his sister is asleep, he might not join them all in the parlour before supper.

Quite honestly, Harry would rather avoid it. He would spend the evening with a sleeping Ginny if it meant avoiding Miss Parkinson’s hypocrisy and Mr Snape’s frowning and staring, but he cannot find it in him to refuse Mrs Nott anything.

* * *

Severus sometimes wishes Pansy would suffer a terrible accident that would leave her mute. But because life is cruel this way, and utterly unfair, _he_ is the one most often struck speechless these days. And it was this very morning that he suffered his worst fit of mutism to date.

He was thoroughly unprepared for Mr Weasley’s arrival this morning. Severus usually has time enough to gather his wits, to elaborate some sort of plan of action when he knows he will see the young man. Before Friday’s assembly, for instance, he had time to prepare himself for an entire evening of witnessing true beauty and feeling his insides flutter whenever the boy looked his way. And that time they visited the Weasleys and Severus found him in the parlour with the guests, he was taken aback but still rather prepared to encounter him in his home. This morning, however, upon seeing him walk into the room, Severus was shaken to his very core.

 _Severus Snape’s Great Undoing_ , he imagines his friends would call it if they knew. Or something equally mocking. Oh, they know very well what occurred, for none of them are blind or stupid enough not to understand – although with Theodore it is sometimes hard to tell. But they remain unaware, or so Severus deeply hopes, of the true nature of the turmoil that gnaws at him now.

He was mute throughout, struck quite violently by the brilliance of the boy’s complexion. Cheeks rosy and eyes bright, he looked like some sort of strange wild creature. Like a wood elf emerged from an imaginary realm, his dark hair mussed up with leaves. All the breath left Severus’ lungs at the sight of him. He did not even notice that he was standing until Neville had led the guest away and Pansy commented on his behaviour. And for the rest of the day she constantly teased him about it. And when she was not teasing him, she took pleasure in commenting on the boy’s impropriety only to watch Severus’ reaction.

He wants to grab himself by the shoulders and shake himself roughly until he regains his senses. How many times has he scoffed at those Alphas who so easily lose their wits around Omegas, who praise them on their grace and decorum? Severus has always believed himself above them, better than them. And perhaps he _was_ , before this day. He has always looked the other way at the sight of an Omega batting his eyelashes at him coyly in the hopes of grasping his attention. He has always remained unaffected by the young men thrown at him during balls and dinner parties. They were all so plain, not only in their looks, but in their character as well. Severus thought himself above them as well. Above contemplating them. But _this_ one, this Harry Weasley, he does not need to bat his eyelashes or to even look at Severus. His mere presence is enough. The mere knowledge of his existence is enough.

“Severus, I will win in three moves if you do that!” Theodore scolds him across the chessboard. “What the devil is on your mind?”

“I believe _I_ know what is on his mind,” Pansy drawls mockingly.

Oh, for her to suffer a grave and sudden fit of illness! Severus does not reply, only moves his queen across the board, perhaps a bit too brusquely. He wishes she would find something to occupy herself instead of sitting with them and either commenting on their games, or on the Weasleys, or on how proper Omegas should behave – which is what she has been doing for the last few hours. Severus wishes Neville would notice and come to his rescue, but he has found some old journals of his father and has been leafing through them for most of the day, uninterested in doing anything else.

“Mr Weasley will soon join us,” Astoria announces as she enters the room, which Severus had not noticed she had left.

“Theodore, you best be careful Severus does not throw your game to the floor in his haste to greet him,” Pansy remarks with a sneer.

Severus briefly contemplates shoving one of the discarded pawns down her throat, but he concentrates instead on trying to ignore the churning of his stomach at the thought that he will soon again be in the boy’s presence. If only he could stop himself from acting like a fool this time and not give Pansy any more reasons to mock him. He _never_ should have spoken to her about his interest in Mr Weasley in the first place. She has not ceased taunting him since that moment. What was he thinking? That she might truly be benevolent and aid him in his desire to be better acquainted with the young man? That she might be pleasant and agreeable or helpful? What sort of simpleton has he suddenly become that he would believe her delight when first informed of his affections was genuine? _Never confide in Pansy,_ Julian once told him. _Given the opportunity, she will use each and every one of your words against you_.

“I shall never forget his appearance this morning,” she says now.

“I quite believe you,” Neville remarks with some exasperation, not looking up from the journal he is holding. “You’ve talked about nothing else all day.”

“He looked almost _wild_. I think there was even thistle in his hair.”

“That was all lost on me, Pansy,” Astoria replies almost coldly, which is very unlike her, but which Severus greatly appreciates. “I thought he looked remarkably well when he came into the parlour this morning.”

“I cannot believe he would cut through the woods. Did you see his trousers? Six inches deep in mud! Severus, surely _you_ cannot have missed–”

“His dirty trousers quite escaped my notice,” he snaps, moving his rook ever closer to Theodore’s king.

“To walk such a long way, above his ankles in dirt! And alone! An Omega, quite alone!” she insists. “What could he mean by it? It seems to me to show a very conceited independence on his part, or a considerable indifference on the part of his parents.”

Severus remains quiet, but he _does_ have to admit he has had this thought as well. How could his parents let him walk so far by himself, indeed? But there is something about Mr Harry Weasley, a daring sort of quality to his character, that makes Severus suspect he does not give much thought to what his parents might say of whatever he decides to do. He saw this first that time when they were sitting in the parlour in the Weasleys’ home and the boy raised his head to meet his gaze so directly. Even smelling of fear, there is something inside him willing to stand and fight. _He wanders the moors at dawn, his nose constantly in a book_ , Neville said that first night. If Severus were alone, he would smile at the thought. The image seems so fitting indeed. And yet, how lonely such a young man must be in a place like this.

He thinks back to what Dr Granger told him at the assembly, about how young Mr Weasley came to be in Hogsmeade. And he wonders if the boy remembers any of it, or if he has forgotten with time, or _made_ himself forget, as people sometimes do with painful memories. He wonders what happened to him before he came to be in the Weasleys’ home. Was that man his father, or was he taken away from his family? Or given away? It is an all too common occurrence, Severus has been told, in the poorer parts, for families to give their Omega children away. Sometimes they get some coins out of it, sometimes not, but either way, they have one less mouth to feed.

“I rather think it shows an affection for his sister that is very pleasing,” Neville says, shaking Severus from his own thoughts.

Pansy ignores him, directing her attention once again to Severus. “As an Alpha, you wouldn’t want _your_ Omega, if you had one, to go out on such walking expeditions on his own,” she insists, staring piercingly at him. “What if Julian were to–”

“Julian is not my Omega,” he interrupts, tired of her ceaseless nagging. “He can very well walk on his own as far as he wants.”

Neville snorts. “I doubt he would walk very far and risk damaging his shoes.”

“I am very sorry, Severus,” Pansy reiterates in what she surely thinks is an apologetic tone, but which Severus recognises as demeaning and mocking. “I _do_ hope this whole ordeal has not affected your admiration of Mr Weasley’s _fine eyes_.”

He represses a sigh, and not wanting to rise to her taunt this time, answers calmly. “Not at all. They were quite brightened by the exercise.”

She is silent for a moment, and Severus does not dare hope that she will finally change the subject, but she has just opened her mouth to speak again when she closes it and smiles brightly instead. “Mr Weasley, how kind of you to join us!” she exclaims, standing to rush over to the young man who has just entered.

Severus would have thought that, after living with an Omega for nearly seven years now, he would be used to them. It is a truly ridiculous notion, a generalisation he should never permit himself to contemplate. Not only because Julian can hardly be compared to other Omegas – and he would smack Severus on the head if he ever heard him imply that they can even be compared at all – but also because this one here is something else entirely. As Severus turns to look at him, the thought crosses his mind that he would be just as fascinated, just as entranced by him if Mr Weasley were a Beta. But how could Severus know? How can anyone truly know where attraction stems from? Perhaps this, what he is feeling, is all a lie, an instinctual impulse that has nothing to do with the heart. Perhaps it is only Severus’ nature as an Alpha that craves Mr Weasley’s Omega. Perhaps it is only proof that he is, like everyone else, susceptible to his body’s urges. Severus cannot decide if he should find this reassuring or frightening.

The boy has changed his clothes and freshened up. His hair has been tended to, though it still looks as tousled as always. He now wears clean trousers – which Severus strongly hopes Pansy does not dare comment on – and his coat is a very dark blue, nearly black, simple though elegantly cut, and showing a grey waistcoat underneath. His eyes meet Severus’ only for a second before he looks away as Pansy takes his arm to escort him further into the room. But it’s long enough for Severus’ breath to catch in his throat. Mr Weasley is, as always, quite becoming.

Neville’s laughter startles him, and Severus is suddenly aware that words are being said.

“Could I perhaps interest you in a game of chess?” Theodore is asking. “My opponent is appalling, and I would love a challenge,” he adds, scowling at Severus.

“I’m afraid you would not find it with me, Mr Nott,” Mr Weasley says with a polite smile. “I am just as appalling as your friend in that concern.”

“A game of cards, perhaps?” Pansy asks eagerly, still clutching at the boy’s arm the way a bird grasps a prey in its talons.

“Oh, thank you, but I would settle with a book,” he says, lifting the small tome he has been holding onto.

“Do you _truly_ prefer reading to cards?”

“Mr Weasley despises cards, I believe. He is a great reader and finds little pleasure in anything else,” Neville intervenes, laughing.

Mr Weasley frowns, and he looks just as beautiful even when offended. “I don’t deserve such praise. And I have pleasure in _many_ things, I assure you.”

“Oh, no, no!” Neville exclaims at once, apologetically. “Forgive me. It was not a remark on your character, I was merely teasing my cousin on her own lack of interest in books. I do wish my collection were larger for your benefit, Mr Weasley, and for my own credit as well. Most of these books were my father’s, you see.”

“Oh yes, because _you_ , yourself own a considerable number of books,” Theodore remarks mockingly.

Neville blushes. “I am afraid I have never been a great collector, indeed.”

“I am astonished that your father should have left so small a collection, Neville,” Astoria remarks, smiling fondly at Mr Weasley when he sits next to her. “What a delightful library _you_ have at home, Severus. I will never tire of it. I believe you could peruse it for decades and never manage to discover all of its secrets.”

“It has been the work of many generations,” Severus says, trying to force his attention back to the chessboard but failing miserably.

“And you have added so much to it yourself. You are _always_ buying books,” Astoria continues.

“We would receive a full case nearly every week in all the years I lived there,” Neville adds.

Pansy shakes her head at him. “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these,” she complains, fooling absolutely no one in her falseness and hypocrisy. “Neville, this house is very fine, but you should perhaps consider selling it and purchasing a house in Derbyshire near Prince Manor. There is no finer place in all of England.”

“With all my heart,” Neville declares honestly, “I will buy Prince Manor itself if Severus will sell it to me.”

Severus scoffs. “Not a cat in hell’s chance of that. And what would be the use of you purchasing it since you would find yourself destitute afterwards?”

“It is a magnificent house indeed,” Astoria tells Mr Weasley. “For everywhere my husband and I have travelled, I have never seen its like.”

“Prince Manor?” Mr Weasley asks curiously.

“Severus inherited it from his mother’s family.”

“The only living heir to the Prince line,” Pansy announces in a way she manages, of course, to be demeaning. “ _Very_ distinguished people.”

“What are you reading, Mr Weasley?” Neville asks with interest.

“Oh, Dante!” Astoria exclaims, looking at the small tome on Mr Weasley’s lap. “One of my favourites. Will you read something for us, Mr Weasley?”

The boy blushes at once. “Oh, I don’t know if… I have been reading aloud to my sister most of the day, my voice is quite tired,” he attempts, but Astoria takes his hand pleadingly.

“Please, I beg of you. Just a short passage. Canto five? It’s not long. I would so love to hear it!”

“Oh, do read it, Mr Weasley,” Neville agrees, settling back into his seat comfortably, ready to listen. “Entertain us, if only for a moment.”

The boy sighs softly, but Severus can tell he will not find it in him to refuse them. He opens the small book, turning the pages gently, and Astoria points to the passage as soon as he has reached it.

Mr Weasley clears his throat, a light blush spreading on his cheeks as he starts reading. “ _From the first circle we descended down to that which was of a more narrow space, where pain from every one excited cries…_ ”

Severus watches him, the chessboard all forgotten. He does not find it in himself to hear the words, he only looks at the way the boy’s lips move to shape them and give them life. He watches the brow, slightly frowned in concentration, the curl of hair falling on his pale forehead. He watches the way the boy holds the book open in his hands, delicately, almost reverently. Severus watches for what could be hours, for what he wishes were hours. If only one could stop this moment in time and never let it end.

“ _The land where I was born is on the shore placed_ ,” the boy is saying softly when Severus resurfaces from his trance _, “where the Po and all his rivulets run with their tributes smoothly to the sea. Love, which possesses soon a courteous breast, seized on my handsome paramour, whose loss I yet lament, reflecting on the act. Love, which will always be by love repaid, caused me to that great pleasure in him take, which still possesses me, as you perceive…”_

Mr Weasley could be speaking in tongues for all Severus can make of the text. He is shattered to his very being. He has been on this earth for forty years. He has travelled the world, met hundreds of people. He has lived a full life – or so he had thought until coming to this town he deemed worthless from the very first glance. How was he to know he would find such a creature in so common, so unremarkable a place? He had thought only to stay to see Neville settled properly, but he knows now if he were to leave, he would leave his whole heart behind.

“ _We then alone, without suspicion were, to admire each other, often from the book our eyes were taken, and often our colour changed. That was the point of time which conquered us, when, reading that her captivating smile was by the lover she adored kissed, this my companion, always with me seen, fearful and trembling, also kissed my mouth. The writer, Galeotto, named the book, but from that day we never read in it more_.

“ _During one spirit was relating this, so deeply did the other mourn, that I with pity swooned, and fell like a dead corpse_.”

He looks up as he finishes, his eyes meeting Severus’ at once. This time, neither of them looks away.

 _People like to think Alphas are the strong ones_ , Julian had once said. _But it’s quite the opposite. In my mind, if an Omega is clever enough, the world can be at his feet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The extract from Dante is from the 1752 edition of _Inferno_ translated by Charles Rogers. It’s definitely not the best one out there, but it fit the timeline. Originally it’s in verses, but I took the liberty of modifying the structure a bit. If there are mistakes in the text, I apologize. The scanned pages I consulted were in pretty bad shape.


	5. infatuation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of this thing. I’ve been a little busy these last few months, but I’m back into this now. I hope this chapter will make up for the wait.
> 
> On a side note, the House of Snarry Discord server is organising this year its very first snarry fest and I thought I’d drop a few words here because I feel it hasn’t been talked about nearly enough. It’s specifically snarry and specifically for AUs, which as you know, is entirely my cup of tea. Anyone can participate, you don’t have to join the server to do so. Unfortunately, I will not be participating this year in order to concentrate on this fic, but I urge all of you who might be interested to take a look. Prompting has been opened since July 20th and there are so many prompts already! Plenty to choose from! To learn more visit snarryauctoberfest on Tumblr!
> 
> While you're on Tumblr, I'm there as well as liladiurne. Feel free to visit.

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\- **5** -

**infatuation**

* * *

INFATUATION, _s_. [from _infatuate_ ]

The act of striking with folly; deprivation of reason.

\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

It must be well past midnight and the manor is quiet, almost eerily so. The Burrow is _never_ quiet, not even at night – there is always the creaking of old wood planks, as if the house were breathing or stirring awake for a moment only to fall back asleep. There is Hedwig’s gentle purring if she’s sleeping nearby, or the patter of her small paws on the floor if she is wandering about restlessly. On summer nights, there is the wind in the trees and the singing frogs in the river. In the winter, there is the crackling fire and the sound of the logs shifting in the little stove in Harry’s bedroom. The Burrow is never still like this place is – it is always present, lovingly watching over the inhabitants. As beautiful as Longbottom Manor is during the day, it seems cold and uninviting at night. Or it is on _this_ night, at least to Harry. It seems to him unused to living beings, not quite inhospitable but rather indifferent.

The room he has been given faces north, with two large windows to the front of the house. It is too large, filled sparsely with unfamiliar furniture that casts strange shadows on the floors and walls. The bed is larger as well, much larger than what Harry is used to sleeping in, and he cannot bring himself to settle under the covers. They feel stiff and smell odd, and he longs for the soft linens of his own bed. Unable to find sleep, he sits near the window for a time, having left the drapes opened slightly to let some moonlight in, and he looks out at the unfamiliar view.

In the sky is the same moon he sees every night, and yet it seems so different from here. It does not shine the same way. From his bedroom window at The Burrow, it reflects on the surface of the river, casting a beautiful glow. But there is no river here to catch the moonlight, and there are no trees for the wind to blow through. There is only silence and darkness.

As much as he loves Ginny and wants her to be comforted by his presence here, Harry regrets agreeing to stay the night. He could always have gone home before or after supper and returned early in the morning. Ginny slept deeply for most of the evening and would have been completely unaware had he left. And Miss Parkinson _did_ say he could have the carriage if he wanted. But everyone is asleep now, and it is too late for him to change his mind and accept the offer.

He looks out at the dark landscape, barely discerning the mass of trees across the moor. Home is on the other side, somewhere far in the distance, but he cannot even see a glimpse of it. He can just imagine the illuminated window of his father’s study, like a beacon in the night. It tugs at Harry’s heart in an unexpected surge of longing and he rubs his eyes, trying to get a hold of himself. He remembers this feeling – he is eight years old, visiting his grandfather in Hampstead, burying his face in the pillow in the middle of the night, trying not to cry.

Harry huffs out a shaky, irritated breath. He is twenty years old! He should not feel this way anymore. And yet, never in his entire life has he wanted to be somewhere else more than in this moment, in the dead of night, in this strange house. He wants to crawl safely into his own bed, tighten the familiar blankets around him, rest his head on his own pillow. He feels nervous and tense, and there’s something heavy forming in the pit of his stomach, making him feel not quite nauseated but strangely uneasy. There is a numbing sort of pain as well, in his thighs and lower back. The long walk in the woods must have been harder on him than he thought.

At least the evening has not been completely unpleasant. Much easier, in fact, than Harry had expected. His reading of Dante’s canto had initiated an interesting discussion about the writer’s representations of hell, which drifted to the writings of William Blake, Mrs Nott’s favourite author, and she had fetched her copy of one of his books to show Harry the illustrations. Miss Parkinson hovered nearby for a time, laughing at the characters in the drawings before growing bored and joining the gentlemen at the small table where Mr Snape and Mr Nott had begun a new game of chess. Meanwhile, Mr Longbottom intervened with one group or another, pleasant and polite to his guests, as always.

The more time Harry spends in Mr Longbottom’s company, the more he appreciates the young man. They are the same age, he discovered, and Mr Longbottom’s birthday has just recently passed as well. He feels they are long-time friends already, though they have only just met. Mr Longbottom is hasty in his discourse and often embarrasses himself because of this, but he is not afraid to be apologetic. He is never rude and always honest and kind. Harry appreciates this character, so divergent from that of his close friend Mr Snape, with his sullen, unreadable expressions and his disapproving silences.

Harry was grateful for Mrs Nott’s book, which allowed him to ignore Mr Snape’s incessant staring. At least the man did not address him at all tonight. In fact, if Harry’s recollections are accurate, the man has never addressed him directly, apart from a few uttered words when they were first introduced. Harry cannot decide whether this is a good thing or not. Part of him wants to continue being ignored so, and yet he would much rather be talked to directly instead of being continuously stared at in silence. He would rather the man tell him outwardly what is on his mind rather than ruminate whatever thoughts or dour opinions he holds regarding Harry. Or would he rather know? Harry cannot quite decide. Given his reaction the last time he heard what Mr Snape thought of him, perhaps silence is better.

Fortunately, supper was uneventful. They ate in a small, informal dining room that would surely leave Harry’s mother offended but that he thought was quite lovely and not as intimidating as the manor’s proper dining room must be. Mrs Nott insisted Harry sit next to her, for which he was grateful because the only other available seat was by Miss Parkinson across the table. Harry, who was quite wearied by then, and longed only to retire, listened absently to the conversations. Mr Nott talked of two gentlemen in London, one the brother of a dear friend of his and the other a man of ill-repute, who had an argument the year before. Harry did not quite understand the story nor the characters, only that there was a growing feud now threatening to turn into a duel that Mr Nott enthusiastically looked forward to. When Mr Longbottom announced that this was a topic neither appropriate for the ladies nor for their guest, Miss Parkinson gladly took the opportunity to talk about the numerous weddings she planned to attend in the coming months. Mr Snape stayed silent throughout, alternating between eating and sneaking glances at Harry, as he does.

Perhaps the knowledge that Mr Snape is staying under the same roof is yet another reason Harry cannot find sleep tonight. Never has he been confronted with such a difficult character. What goes on behind those dark eyes? What sort of thoughts occupy that mind? However, it is not only Mr Snape’s character that is unsettling, but his scent as well. Harry is noticing it more now that he has been in close quarters with the man, surrounded only by Betas. Mr Snape’s scent is as difficult to comprehend as the man’s thoughts and temperament. It does not come in overwhelming or cloying bursts like most Alpha’s scents tend to, but rather it is simply… present. Constant and enveloping. Not quite overpowering and yet impossible to ignore. When Mr Snape is present, it is there with every breath Harry takes, and it stays in his throat and lungs long after they have separated. Despite himself, and to his greatest shame and irritation, Harry cannot ignore how pleasant this scent is. How deplorable, coming from such a man.

All the while he was reading the extract from Dante, Harry could feel the man’s eyes on him like a heavy weight. They were _all_ looking at him, of course, but Mr Snape’s gaze was the one he felt the most. Harry would have thought to be used to it by now, to be indifferent, and yet his heart thumped in his chest as he read the words. In that moment, Mr Snape’s stare, his presence, his scent, felt so intrusive Harry hoped his voice was not shaking. And when he was finished and looked up, he met the man’s eyes at once and forced himself not to look away. He wanted Mr Snape to know that he was not scared, that he would stand his ground regardless of what the man might think of him or say about him. He wanted to make it clear that he is not one of those idiotic, helpless, _dainty_ Omegas who would tremble under his gaze and lose all manner of composure in his presence.

The house is beautiful and the room as well, the host is welcoming and the other guests amiable enough, and yet Harry would rather be home. He regrets his promise to Ginny and at once feels guilty for regretting it and wanting more than anything to abandon her to the mercy of near strangers. How he longs to be able to sleep in his own bed, away from the too large and too empty bedroom, away from the wide windows and the darkness behind them, and more than anything, away from the lingering scent of Mr Snape.

He crawls into bed and under the blankets tiredly, regretfully, curling up inside his nightshirt so that as little as possible of the strange blankets can touch his skin. There is still this numbing sort of pain to his lower back, and Harry shifts constantly, looking for a more comfortable position. He finally tucks a pillow behind him and leans his body against it for support. It helps somewhat. He pulls on the collar of his nightshirt, holding it closer to his nose, seeking the familiar scents of home and trying to ignore the strange ones emanating from the sheets, the room, the house…

When he finally finds sleep, the scent of Mr Snape, still clinging to his throat, follows him there.

Harry’s father often says that most ills can be cured with a good night’s sleep, and perhaps he is right because Harry _does_ feel better the next day. Somewhat. The soreness is still there, in his back and legs, a numbing pain that comes and goes, and the longing for home is still present as well, along with the desire to be in his own bed. But the strange queasiness in his stomach is gone, at least.

The room is filled with light, coming in through the curtains he left half-opened the night before, and Harry closes his eyes again to avoid it. He feels better, yes, but he would sleep the day away if he could. If he were home and not a guest here, he would pull the covers over his head and doze off again, ignoring the rest of the world. Sleepiness weighs on him, and his limbs feel heavy when he drags himself out of bed. He wonders if he might be coming down with a cold like Ginny.

As he gets dressed, he hopes that his sister feels better today so that they can leave this place. As much as he longs to, he will not leave without Ginny. He does not even dare mention to her that he would like to, because he knows she will tell him to go, try to convince him that she will be just fine on her own, and he will know that she is lying. She was so relieved to see him yesterday, and so desperate for him to stay, that he would not believe her if she gave him leave to go. Harry finds himself hoping that if he must stay the whole day, perhaps the gentlemen will have plans to go shooting with Seamus and his father again, or to have dinner with friends in town, or to attend to some affairs in London. He can only hope that some form of commitment calls them away for the day, or Mr Snape, at least. If Mr Snape were to take his leave, it would be all for the better.

Harry can distinguish his scent still, lingering in the air like perfume. It seems even stronger this morning, and he wonders if Mr Snape’s room is close by. It _must_ be, for the smell to be so persistent. Harry wrinkles his nose, clears his throat loudly and coughs a few times, trying to rid himself of the odour, all in vain. This infuriating predicament does not help his opinion of Mr Snape at all. Surely the man must be doing this on purpose somehow.

Uncaring that it might seem rude to his hosts, Harry decides to have breakfast with Ginny in her room. Not only because he fears she might be lonely, but also in hopes to avoid Mr Snape. He is surprised, however, to learn that the man left early this morning, while they were all still sleeping. According to Mr Longbottom, it is not an unusual occurrence, as his friend enjoys solitary horse rides at dawn, and should return soon. Harry is unsettled to realise that the man might have left but his scent is still remarkably present all throughout the house. How dreadful.

Ginny looks much better today, and though she coughs and wheezes and still complains of a very sore throat, her fever has considerably diminished, and she is in a good mood. Harry hopes her state will only keep improving so that they can leave by the end of the day. He does _not_ want to spend another night here. Mrs Nott joins them shortly after they are done eating, and when she demands that Harry reads something to them, he picks up Aesop’s _Fables_. The stories are very short, and he manages to read quite a few, which they discuss afterwards. When he is tired of reading, Mrs Nott offers to continue.

Later that afternoon, Mrs Weasley arrives in order to check on Ginny, at last. Harry shakes his head when he hears of her appearance, knowing perfectly well that she has arranged her visit at such an hour that she will inevitably be asked to stay for dinner. Upon seeing her daughter, she frets endlessly and declares that Ginny looks terrible and that she absolutely _must_ get some sleep, chasing everyone out of the room as if it housed someone on their deathbed.

“It is much worse than I feared,” she announces not quite regretfully, once they are all gathered in the parlour again. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved yet. Dr Granger says we must not think of moving her until she is better! I am afraid we must abuse your kindness longer.”

“Oh, I quite agree,” Miss Parkinson intervenes, her manner all soft and pleasant. “It must not be thought of removing her so soon. My cousin, I am sure, will not hear of it.”

“You may depend upon it that Miss Weasley will receive every possible attention while she remains with us,” Mr Longbottom agrees. “Please, will you stay and join us for dinner?”

Mrs Weasley looks falsely reticent at the offer. “Oh, I would not dare impose another one of us on your generosity–” she begins, and it takes all of Harry’s might not to snort.

“I assure you it is no imposition, Madam. Please.”

It takes no more than that for Harry’s mother to accept, of course, and she seems so happy with the turn of events that she does not even comment on the little dining room where, once again, they settle to eat. Mr Snape, who hasn’t been seen at all that day, decides to join them. He is, as usual, his silently staring self, and his scent, strong as always, has Harry wrinkling his nose discreetly.

They have barely started the meal when Mrs Weasley reiterates on Ginny’s horrible, horrible state. “If it was not for good friends such as yourselves, I do not know what would become of my daughter,” she declares. “She is _very_ ill indeed and suffers a great deal. However, with so sweet a temper, which is always the way for her, she is slighting her suffering so as not to be bothersome. A mother can _always_ tell.”

Harry wonders if her motherly instincts ever allow her to tell how embarrassed _he_ is and wishes she would be quiet. He has already caught Mr Snape and Miss Parkinson sharing glances across the table.

“She can remain with us as long as is needed,” Mr Longbottom says earnestly.

“You have a charming home, Mr Longbottom,” she continues at once. “I do not know any other place in the country that is equal to this estate. You will not be leaving in a hurry, I hope. It looks as though you have not quite settled in yet,” she remarks, having surely noticed the sparse furniture.

Mr Longbottom is not offended in the slightest. “I assure you that at present I consider myself as quite fixed here. However, I must admit that nearly everything I do is done in a hurry, and if I should decide to leave, I should probably be off in five minutes,” he finishes with a smile.

Harry grins, not only at the statement but also at the way his mother purses her lips upon hearing it. “That is exactly what I would expect of you,” he remarks, addressing Mr Longbottom.

“ _Harry_ ,” his mother says softly, with a hint of warning to her tone. “Remember where you are, my dear. Do not speak in this wild manner like you do at home.”

Once more, Mr Longbottom is not offended. He grins at Harry curiously. “You begin to understand me, do you?”

“Oh yes, perfectly.”

Mr Longbottom shakes his head with a sigh, but he is grinning still. “I wish to take this for a compliment, but to be so easily seen through, I am afraid, is quite pitiful.”

“Oh, it is not pitiful at all,” Harry says at once. “Not everyone must have a deep and intricate character to be engaging. I find it is much more estimable to possess a temperament that is easily understood, such as yours. I quite admire your candour and your honesty, Mr Longbottom. So many men think it interesting to present themselves as distant and mysterious only to inspire wonder in others. It is a trait more common than you would believe and reveals a character not quite so intricate as these men would like to think.” He does not look in Mr Snape’s direction but secretly hopes the man feels hurt by the statement.

Mr Longbottom turns to Harry, greatly interested now. “I did not know you were a studier of people. It must be an amusing activity, even with the less intricate characters such as myself.”

“Oh, it is. Although the intricate characters are the most amusing to unfold, for any good observer will quickly realise that they are just like everyone else. They are in fact quite simple once you understand them. For the most part, they are only putting on airs. They are not _truly_ intricate, but rather deceitful.”

It is not Mr Longbottom who replies this time but Mr Snape, who seems to have finally decided to speak. When he does, however, he avoids looking at Harry and merely addresses everyone in an offhanded manner. “I imagine this town can supply very few subjects of truly intricate nature,” he drawls, as always in a tone much softer than Harry would expect. “As an observer myself, I have come to realise that the countryside provides a very confined and unvarying people.”

“I disagree,” Harry replies, not looking at the man either. “People _everywhere_ offer something new to be observed.”

“Yes, _indeed_!” Harry’s mother intervenes, her voice quite loud and much colder now, as she regards Mr Snape with narrowed eyes. “I assure you, _sir_ , there is quite as much happening in the country as in London. I doubt London has any great advantage over the country, except the shops and public places. The country is _much_ pleasanter, is it not, Mr Longbottom?”

Everybody seems surprised, and a moment of silence follows this outburst during which Harry would very much like to disappear. Obviously, his mother is quite afraid that Mr Longbottom will share his friend’s feelings regarding their little town and that he might decide to leave at barely a moment’s notice, as he earlier implied.

Mr Longbottom, who had been chewing a mouthful of his dinner, swallows before declaring, pleasantly, “When I am in the country, I never wish to leave it, and when I am in London, it is the same. They have their advantages and I can be equally happy in either.”

Harry’s mother is clearly not reassured by this neutral statement. “Yes, because _you_ have the right disposition, but _that gentleman_ seems to think this town is nothing at all,” she reproaches, pointing her fork accusingly in Mr Snape’s direction, though the man seems unconcerned by her remarks and has already returned to his dinner.

Harry intervenes, surprisingly taking some sort of pity over the man, knowing his mother might take offense and embarrass herself even further if Mr Snape decides to reiterate. “Mamma, I believe you mistook Mr Snape. He only meant that there is not such a variety of people to meet in the country as in London. You must admit that is true.”

“Certainly, my dear. _Nobody_ said there were,” she snaps, as if to put an end to the discussion.

Mr Longbottom is too polite to react, but Harry catches Miss Parkinson and Mr Snape sharing a glance again, though he is unable to determine if they are shocked by his mother’s behaviour or rather find it laughable.

“Has Hermione visited since I’ve been gone?” he finally asks in order to change the subject.

“Yes, she came yesterday with her father. What an agreeable young woman she is,” Mrs Weasley announces to the hosts, having suddenly found her high spirits again. “It is a pity she is not more handsome,” she adds. “Not that I think Miss Granger so very plain. She is Harry’s very good friend.”

Harry simply shakes his head discreetly at her antics. He should have known she would take this opportunity to rant once again about how Ginny’s beauty surpasses Hermione’s.

“She seems a very pleasant young woman,” Mr Longbottom remarks.

“Oh yes, but you must admit she is _very_ plain,” Mrs Weasley replies, at once contradicting her former statement. “Mrs Granger has often said so herself, and she envies me Ginny’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own daughter, but to be sure, one does not often see a girl so handsome. Although I do not trust my opinion on the matter, it is what _everybody_ says. When she was only fifteen,” she continues, “there was a gentleman, a young attorney in Hampstead, where my father lives, who was so much in love with her that we were sure he would make an offer. But he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young still. He did write some verses for her, and they were very pretty.”

Harry nearly snorts. He remembers this young man well, and he remembers the verses, for Ginny was so amused she showed them to all her brothers. He had been nearly offended at the awkwardness of the rhymes and the poor effort that was put into them. He would have been mortified had anyone written something of the sort for him, but Ginny, with her sweet nature, had simply laughed.

“I think they were terrible,” he reveals, hoping again to change the conversation. “It is perhaps lucky that he did not make an offer, because if my sister had any affection for him, I am quite certain it vanished the moment she read those awful lines. Every man thinks himself a poet at the slightest sting of infatuation, but I cannot think of a better way to discourage love than to attempt poetry.”

He is convinced his mother will have nothing to say on the subject, and that hopefully one of the others will follow the course of the discussion and take it somewhere out of her reach. Just as Mrs Weasley makes an irritated sound, seemingly ready to intervene despite her lack of knowledge on the matter, Mr Snape speaks again, this time looking directly at Harry.

“Is that so? I have long considered poetry as the food of love.”

The man has spoken with a sort of curiosity that Harry finds unexpected and unwanted. He was rather hoping that Mrs Nott would participate to the discussion instead. But he does not let himself be unsettled. “It might be,” he says distractedly. “But of a strong love, perhaps. Every attentive gesture nourishes what is already strong. But if it is only a slight love or an inclination, I am convinced that one sonnet will starve it entirely away. Cannot be a poet any man who wants to be, regardless of how enamoured he believes he is.”

When Harry lifts his gaze, only for a second, to look towards Mr Snape, he is surprised to see the corner of the man’s lips curving very slightly, as though he is repressing a smile. Harry looks away at once, his heart in his throat.

“What do you propose then, to nourish this inclination?” the man asks.

Though his tone is, once again, curious and devoid of any sneer or disdain, Harry finds himself offended by this questioning. Surely the man means to confront him on the matter regardless of what his answer will be. His well-hidden amusement is quite noticeable to Harry’s observant eye.

“Dancing, I believe,” Harry announces, regarding Mr Snape in a way he hopes seems fearless and defiant. “Even if one’s partner is _barely_ tolerable.”

There is a huff of breath from one of the guests, as if they were holding back laughter, but Harry does not dare look around at them to see who is amused, for fear that it might be Miss Parkinson. This time, Mr Snape does not hide his smile, though it is not mocking in any way. It is a smile of pleasant surprise, of one impressed by the wit of their interlocutor. The man does not respond, however, and the silence that follows makes Harry’s insides tremble. He looks away in what he hopes is disinterest, unable to find something else to say. Fortunately, his mother takes advantage of the break in the conversation to repeat her thanks to Mr Longbottom for taking such good care of Ginny and then proceeds to urge him to give a ball in this grand and beautiful home as soon as possible. It is quite a relief to Harry when she takes her leave a short while later.

Harry spends the afternoon in Ginny’s room, uncaring that she is sleeping most of the time. He settles by her bedside and reads more of the _Inferno_ , relishing the solitude and the quietness. His mother’s visit has put him in a foul mood, and he does his best to hide it whenever one of the ladies comes in to ask if he needs anything. He was convinced they would be able to return home today, and the prospect of spending another night here enrages him to the point that he often feels like crying. He wants to go home and find refuge in his own room, in his own bed. He wants to sleep away this tiredness and this constant feeling of discomfort, this numbing pain that comes and goes still, unrelenting.

Time drags by slowly until he is again invited to join his hosts in the parlour before supper. Reluctantly, he returns to his assigned room and changes before heading downstairs. He brings the copy of _Othello_ tonight – surely no one will ask him to read from that book. If they do, this time he will say that he is too tired. He has no desire to indulge his hosts, no matter how cordial they have been so far.

When Harry comes into the parlour, the very first thing he notices is Mr Snape, sitting at the little writing desk near the window, in the process of drafting a letter. Mr Longbottom is seated on one of the sofas, leafing through a little book, with a small pile of identical tomes by his side. The other sofa is occupied by the ladies. Miss Parkinson is chatting with Mrs Nott, who is sewing feathers on a beautiful hat, and whose husband is at the table, carefully stacking playing cards into a vertiginous structure.

“Good evening, Mr Weasley,” Mr Longbottom greets him when he enters, hurriedly gathering the little books onto his knees so that Harry can sit beside him.

Miss Parkinson stands up at once. “I suddenly feel the need to stretch my legs. Please, take my seat. This way, you can more easily converse with our dear Astoria. I understand the two of you have become good friends already.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, taking her seat.

“We have indeed,” Mrs Nott declares with a smile, squeezing Harry’s arm fondly for a moment. “How is your sister this evening?”

“Better. I believe we will be able to return home tomorrow.”

“What excellent news!” Mr Longbottom exclaims, before blushing brightly. “Not that I am opposed to the two of you staying with us longer,” he adds in a rush. “I am simply relieved that your sister is improving.”

Mrs Nott laughs softly. “No need to fret, Neville. We know you always have the best of intentions.”

“What are you writing?” Miss Parkinson interrupts, having now reached Mr Snape and peering over his shoulder.

“A letter,” the man answers in his deep and distinctive drawl.

“Yes, but who are you writing to?”

Mr Snape sighs briefly. “That is none of your concern.”

“Is it for Julian?” she asks again, but Mr Snape remains silent. “How delighted he will be to receive such a long letter.”

Again, Mr Snape does not answer, does not even look up from his writing. Harry represses a smirk at the annoyance on Miss Parkinson’s face. He wonders who this _Julian_ might be but does not dare ask. He cannot have Mr Snape thinking he is interested in his affairs.

“You write uncommonly fast,” Miss Parkinson comments, again peering over Mr Snape’s shoulder.

He sighs again. “In truth, I write rather slowly.”

“Writing letters is so tedious!” she declares with a dramatic sigh, finally walking away from the man and moving to stand near the window to stare out at the darkening landscape.

“How fortunate then that it is mine to write and not yours,” Mr Snape remarks distractedly.

This time Harry does smile, before looking away and directing his attention to the small book on his lap instead. He tries to start reading but finds he cannot quite concentrate, terribly aware of Mr Snape and his constant, lingering scent. The room is silent for a time as everyone returns to their own activities. Miss Parkinson, however, does not stand quietly for long before leaving her place near the window and approaching Mr Snape again.

“I do not like your quill. It looks blunt. Let me mend it for you,” she offers.

“No, it is fine. I always mend my own,” Mr Snape answers patiently.

“How can you write so evenly?” she asks again. There is a slight pause during which she receives no answer, and then she continues, “Neville writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half the words and blots the rest.”

Mr Longbottom laughs good-heartedly. “My thoughts flow so rapidly that I have no time to express them and I fear my letters often convey no ideas at all.”

“I admire your humility,” Harry remarks.

Mr Snape snorts softly at that. “Nothing is more deceitful than humility,” he says, hardly pausing his writing. “True humility does not exist. It is either foolishness or boasting.”

Mr Longbottom laughs again, not insulted in the least. “And which one of the two would you call mine?”

“The latter. You, my friend, are boasting,” Mr Snape announces, looking up at the younger man. “You are proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as the product of a rapidity of thought. You use it as a way to depreciate yourself, when in truth, most people will admire you for it because the ability of doing things with quickness is generally prized, and if not estimable, is often considered to be found in men of great intelligence. When you told Mrs Weasley this afternoon that if you ever decide to leave the estate, you would be gone in a matter of minutes, you only meant to compliment yourself. Boasting, as I said,” he finishes with a slight smirk.

Neville laughs again, even harder now, before wiping at the corner of his eyes. “How tiresome you are, to remember all the foolish things I say and constantly analyse each one! I assure you I believe what I said of myself to be true and did not at all say this to show off.”

Mr Snape has already picked up his quill again and continued his writing. “ _That_ would be foolishness. You see, Mr Weasley, even those who seem to possess less intricate characters have hidden subtleties to offer,” he adds softly, referring to their earlier conversation at dinner.

Harry manages to hide his uneasiness at being so unexpectedly addressed. “I would never think such treachery as part of Mr Longbottom’s character,” he says lightly, “but I fear I cannot argue with you on this particular matter, for you know your friend better than I do,” he finishes, grinning at his host, who merely laughs again.

“Why must _everyone_ continually tease me so?” Mr Longbottom declares with exasperation, though he seems particularly amused by it all.

“Forgive me. I grew up with six brothers, the teasing comes naturally to me,” Harry explains.

“Your father tells me they are all in London now?” Mr Longbottom replies, eager to change the conversation.

Harry nods. “All but Charlie who is in France.”

“Oh yes, the army man. Theodore knows many officers in the infantry.”

“My brother is a captain in the cavalry,” Harry says.

“I understand he was wounded in the war?” Mr Longbottom asks again.

“He was, yes. He suffered a bayonet wound to his side. He is recovering in Toulouse, in a good hospital. He came to an officer’s rescue in battle, and the man’s father provided accommodations when–”

“Your brother is the man who saved Bartemius Crouch’s life?” Mr Nott asks suddenly, looking up from his cards for the first time this evening.

“I think that is the man’s name, yes. They gave Charlie a medal for it.”

Mrs Nott gasps, delighted. “I did not know your brother was a war hero!”

“I am quite surprised your mother did not mention it,” Miss Parkinson adds with a hint of mockery. “I daresay it must be the _only_ thing she has not mentioned.”

“And your other brothers, what are they doing in London?” Mrs Nott asks pleasantly, disregarding what her cousin has just said.

“Bill is a solicitor. Percy is studying to be a barrister and Ron is pursuing medicine. Fred and George are working as playwrights.”

“We love theatre!” Mr Nott remarks. It is the most interest Harry has ever seen him showing. “Perhaps we have seen one of their plays.”

Harry clears his throat, hoping he is not blushing. “I doubt it. They most often show at Sadler’s Wells.”

Mr Nott laughs, but not at all derisively. “How delightful! I have been many times though Astoria has never accompanied me. I usually attend it with my old friends from Eton. Did your brothers go to Eton?”

Miss Parkinson scoffs softly at this question, and when Harry looks at her, her lips are set in a smirk.

“Bill and Charlie did,” he answers, “but my other brothers attended school in town.” He looks away from them all for a moment, ashamed, knowing they will undoubtedly understand the implications of this statement – that the Weasleys were not fortunate enough to provide all their sons with the best education.

“And did _you_ attend school?” Miss Parkinson asks slowly, as if she were savouring each word.

Harry does not need to look up to know that surely her smirk has widened. He feels his face heat up from anger and shame.

Surprisingly, Mr Snape, who has just put his quill down, answers at once. “Evidently, Mr Weasley has been provided with a perfectly adequate education. Having overheard him skilfully discuss most interesting topics, I can attest to this with certainty. I suspect your father must have hired a private tutor?”

“Yes,” Harry says softly. “A number of them.”

“Forgive my cousin,” Mr Longbottom intervenes, regarding her briefly with a dark glare. How many times a day must he say these words? Harry muses. He seems to want to continue, to provide an excuse or an explanation for Miss Parkinson’s words or behaviour, but seemingly unable to find one, he remains silent.

Harry wonders if her disdain is directed at his family’s lack of fortune or simply at _him_. He is aware that many believe that any sort of teaching is lost on Omegas, that it is useless to educate them because they have but one use in society, which requires them to know nothing other than how to lay on their backs and _submit_. These expectations terrify and humiliate Harry at once. As much as he despises Miss Parkinson, he did not think she would be that sort of person, and he finds his dislike slowly turning to hatred.

“However prestigious Eton College may be, I consider private tutoring to be superior in many aspects,” Mr Snape declares, to Harry’s surprise. “I would have much preferred having a private preceptor of my own, as I did not enjoy my years at Eton in the slightest–”

“You were a gloomy, miserable sod even then, were you, Severus?” Mr Nott asks with a grin.

“ _As such_ ,” Mr Snape continues, ignoring the interruption, “I decided to provide Neville with a tutor when he came under my care. Only in later years have I allowed him to attend college.”

“I was truly a wretched child,” Mr Longbottom explains, “prone to fits of sudden tears and misery. I doubt I would have taken well to college at that time.”

“When I first met him, he was hiding behind the drapes in the drawing room at Prince Manor,” Mrs Nott tells Harry.

“I was hiding from her!” Mr Longbottom protests, pointing an accusing finger at Miss Parkinson. “Don’t you remember how she used to torture me?” He pauses, seems to consider his statement. “To be fair, she still often does,” he adds.

“You have always been most amusing to torture, my dear cousin,” Miss Parkinson says lazily, now wandering about the room as if searching for something to entertain herself with.

“I have such fond memories of Derbyshire,” Mrs Nott says, smiling as she delicately works on her hat. “How I miss sitting in the conservatory. Severus, when will you be going back? I would dearly fancy a visit.”

Harry, who happens to be looking at Mr Snape when the question is asked, does his best not to look eager to find out when the man might finally be taking his leave from Hogsmeade. It is Mr Longbottom, however, who answers in his stead. “Soon, I expect. He has done nothing but complain from the moment he arrived.” He laughs then, with something like disbelief. “I daresay I’m surprised he hasn’t left already.”

“Why, Severus,” Miss Parkinson drawls mockingly, “have you grown fond of this little town? Or has something interesting caught your eye?”

“I shall leave as soon as I want to,” Mr Snape says shortly, a hint of impatience in his voice – or irritation, Harry cannot tell.

Mr Nott snorts out a laugh. “Surely you wouldn’t dare leave before Friday and miss the mayor’s ball.”

Miss Parkinson gasps. “Oh, Severus, you must _not_ think of leaving before then! You must remain to ensure those people do not deceive Neville into marrying Miss McLaggen. I doubt I have ever met such a simple-minded girl before. And Neville is polite and docile enough to let himself be convinced into the arrangement.”

Mrs Nott shakes her head. “You are truly unkind, Pansy. She is a gentle girl, and very pretty.”

Miss Parkinson scoffs nastily. “Although I do not doubt for a second that Neville would find it in himself to be content with such a gentle, pretty girl, as you say, I cannot bear the thought of living with her. What would we talk about all day?”

“As charming as Miss McLaggen is, I can assure you I have no interest in her,” Mr Longbottom intervenes firmly, hoping to put an end to his cousin’s rantings. “Therefore, you should not fear having to live with her, for it has always been my intention to marry for love.”

Miss Parkinson shakes her head disapprovingly. “Your sentimentality will never cease to aggravate me, cousin.”

Harry is silent as they banter on, content to listen, and content now to be ignored rather than haughtily insulted as before. He can hardly believe that Mr Snape defended him earlier, when the matter of his education was brought up. And he can hardly believe that the man would also openly refer to his bouts of indiscretions. _Having overheard him_ , he said. Harry would have argued, if he had not been so relieved to have someone come to his defence, that it was not so much overhearing as it was blatant eavesdropping. But he did not want to confront the man in front of his friends and risk any more of Miss Parkinson’s arrogant remarks.

Mr Snape’s scent fills the small parlour. It is stronger when Harry is in the same room as him, and he tries to breathe it in as little as possible, inhaling through his mouth instead of his nose. But it is so pungent he can almost taste it on his tongue. It is an odour that cannot be described, but if the man were not present, and if Harry did not know it came from him – if, for instance, he only smelled it and someone asked him to identify the person it belongs to amongst everyone Harry has ever met before in his life – Harry would know at once. This scent so indubitably belongs to Mr Snape, Harry could recognise it the same way he recognises the smell of wildflowers on the summer air, the smell of burning wood, the smell of baking bread. It belongs to Mr Snape the same way Charlie’s scent belongs to him alone, though Harry has known his brother much longer than he has known this man. Mr Snape has barely stepped into his life and already has left a mark.

Sudden fear seizes Harry. Is this how Alphas do it then, how they trap Omegas? By furtively coming into their lives, uninvited, and spreading their scent all around until it becomes intoxicating. Until it becomes _everything_. Until the Omega can smell nothing else. Until he loses himself. Is this what Mr Snape means to do to him?

Harry directs his attention to the small book he is holding, and he pretends to read while the others chatter on. Mr Nott has grown bored with the conversation and returned to his cards, and Miss Parkinson settles at the pianoforte, where she plays a joyful air and tries in vain to incite the others to dance. Fortunately, they are called to the dining room before she can become too tiresome.

Harry is silent throughout most of supper, speaking only when spoken to, eager for it to be over so he can retire to his room and rest, and attempt to find a semblance of safety, away from Mr Snape and his intoxicating, suffocating scent. Unsurprisingly, nearly every time Harry looks up from his meal, he catches the man staring at him. Can he sense how unsettled, how uncomfortable Harry is? Surely, he can. An honourable man would understand and stop this at once, and yet he does not. Harry looks swiftly away each time, avoiding the man’s dark, unreadable eyes – like staring into the blackness of a well.

He had felt so victorious that afternoon when he managed to speak to Mr Snape so fearlessly. The man had smiled at him almost kindly then, almost fondly. And he had been touched when the man defended him earlier. But if this is what Mr Snape is expecting of him, to let his guard down, to give in, he will be sorely disappointed. Harry will not let this happen to him, he tells himself resolutely, ignoring the piercing eyes. No matter how much the man stares, no matter how strong his scent becomes, Harry will not surrender himself.

Immediately after supper, Harry announces that he feels very tired and excuses himself. Mr Longbottom and his guests are gracious enough not to question him further, and Harry returns to his room, profoundly relieved. He changes into his nightshirt and finds refuge under the sheets at once, despite the strange smell and the stiffness of them. He finds himself shivering and warm at once, as if taken by a fever, and the pain in his back and legs has returned, more pronounced now that he is alone in the silence with nothing to distract himself from it. Harry surrounds himself with pillows in an effort to find comfort and curls up, arms wrapped protectively around his body. It does not take long for sleep to find him.

* * *

Severus has learned from a young age that life is vicious, that one should not trust in fortune because it can turn against you in the blink of an eye.

Neville, for instance, was born to loving parents – at least, according to those who knew them – and destined to an easy and comfortable existence. If life were fair to him, he never would have lost his parents at such a young age, and he never would have found himself in his grandmother’s care to be humiliated and beaten for years. The only blessing fortune has ever bestowed on him is the long-overdue death of old Augusta, which freed him from her noxious grasp.

Julian, in being born an Omega, also suffered the cruel whims of fate. Severus often finds himself wondering what the young man’s life would be like had he been born a Beta, although he has never expressed this directly to his protégé. Julian would certainly wrinkle his nose and shake his head in disappointment at Severus for entertaining such an idea. Then he would make a bold statement about how nothing, in his mind, could be worse than being a plain, uninteresting Beta, although it _must_ have crossed his mind before, surely. If Julian were a Beta, he would not be so shunned and isolated. And, however despicable it is, he would still have a family.

As for Severus, if fate had any regard for him, he would not have lost his parents at such a young age, leaving him with no relatives but a distant uncle – distant in both senses of the word – who cared nothing for him and was quick to send him away to be raised by another. Severus’ father had not been a good man thus his absence was no big loss, but his mother’s death when he was eight years old was the great tragedy of his life. Yes, his parents’ passing had left Severus the sole heir to a considerable fortune, which he inherited at eighteen and used to build a life of his own, but given the opportunity, he would have chosen a happy childhood rather than financial security.

This conviction, that one should not take good things for granted, that what one cherishes can be stolen away without warning, is a notion Severus has been adamant to live by. He reminds himself of it, with a certain degree of bitterness, every time something unexpected happens – fortunate or not – and has grown talented in predicting nasty twists of fate before they happen. For that reason, his friends often call him pessimistic or broody, but he is merely being cautious. This caution, however, also allows him to make the best of bad situations, to try and turn them in his favour.

As unexpected as it first was, Severus has managed to consider Mr Weasley’s presence at the estate as an opportune occasion. He decided to take advantage of these circumstances to try and reconcile himself with the young man and possibly make amends for his despicable behaviour. This has so far proven easier said than done, given how wary Mr Weasley is of him, how troubled Severus is by his presence, how speechless he inevitably becomes each time, and how he just cannot seem to stop himself staring. And now, as if Severus were not miserable enough already, the young man is going into heat.

He first noticed it this morning, the change in scent. In truth, he noticed it last evening, but it was so subtle then that he did not give it much thought. He expected it was only the young Omega’s involuntary response to being in a strange house with strange people, a manifestation of his anxieties, conscious or not – God knows being in Pansy’s company, even for a short time, is enough to keep _anyone_ on their toes. But this morning, it was so strong it woke Severus before dawn.

Severus has not been in close proximity to many Omegas in his life. In fact, if it were not for Julian, his knowledge of them would be all but nought. He _does_ know that they all experience heats differently, just as Alphas with their own ruts, though neither are a subject appropriate for conversation, even between close friends. As such, he has never discussed the details of it with Julian. All he knows of the young man’s heats is that he begins to feel ill a few days prior and retires to his quarters almost as soon as his scent starts to change enough for Severus to notice. The oestrus maid arrives before the worst of it begins and cares for him throughout. Julian only resurfaces five or six days later, looking worse for wear, and it takes another three for him to regain his strength and his cheek.

Omegas are rare, but none of the ones Severus has encountered before has made much of an impression on him. They are meek and uninteresting – if they even _dare_ speak, that is – and for all their apparent rarity, they have always seemed plain and ordinary to Severus’ eyes. Not that they are to blame for their plainness, of course. They are generally uneducated or, if they are not, have been taught to keep their thoughts silent. Although most Alphas are content with such quiet submissiveness, Severus has no time to waste with people who have nothing to say. As such, he has always believed he would marry a well-born, accomplished lady of his choosing if he happens to meet one – such has always been his uncle’s plan for him, and even if Severus has never had any love for the man, he was never opposed to follow this expectation. He has never been in a hurry to settle, however, well-aware that he will be quite miserable once he marries this lady, for he has always been more inclined towards men.

Was Mr Weasley even conscious of what was happening to him? Severus wondered that morning. He has never had a heat before today, that much is certain – his scent when Severus first met him was a clear indication of that, however unusual considering his age – and thus he would not know when to expect the first to come, for it is always unpredictable. How unfortunate that it should happen when he is among strangers, away from home. Severus knows Omegas prefer to spend this time somewhere familiar. If they happen to be in London when his heat is near, Julian always ensures to return to Derbyshire in time. _Nesting_ , he calls it. The strong, nearly painful urge to be home, to be surrounded by things safe and familiar.

Severus had been unable to find sleep again once awakened by the young man’s scent. It was sweet and enticing in a way that is impossible to describe, nothing like Julian’s. Nothing like any other individual – Omega or other – that Severus has ever encountered before. And so, he dressed, had his horse readied, and left at once to gallop through the countryside, breathing in the cool air of dawn. The Omega’s scent stayed with him for a time, clinging to the back of his throat, lingering, and once it was finally gone Severus wanted nothing more than to return to the estate and smell it again. He was hoping Mr Weasley, having understood what was occurring, would have left by the time he returned, but Severus was astounded to learn that he was still there, diligently sitting at his sister’s bedside. The smell, by then, was overwhelming. And truly, undeniably, delectable.

No one else knows. Neville, Pansy, Astoria, Theodore – they are all completely oblivious to what is happening. And _how_ could they know? The scent is not meant for Betas, although it seems astounding that they would not notice it, for it is quite impossible for Severus to ignore. This afternoon, as they sat at dinner, every single emotion the young man felt washed over Severus in bursts, impregnated in his scent. The irritation and embarrassment brought on by his mother’s visit, the enjoyment he feels when talking to Neville, and the feeling of accomplishment his little repartee about dancing brought him. But Severus’ suspicions were then confirmed. Mr Weasley had no idea what was happening to him, and he hid his discomfort remarkably well.

He spent the rest of the day with his sister, and when evening came, Severus decided, as a way to keep himself distracted, and in an effort to attempt to ignore Mr Weasley’s presence, to sit calmly and write a long letter. He has not seen Julian for nearly a fortnight, and though he knows the young man can manage very well on his own, Severus often worries about him. Pansy, who seems determined to aggravate him of late, took no reprieve, and proceeded to harass him continuously as he wrote.

He cannot tell what is going through her mind. He cannot tell if she likes or dislikes Mr Weasley. She once told Severus she found him fascinating, and yet when one moment she declares to be completely enraptured and praises him, the next she tries to provoke Severus into disliking him. One moment she seems to cherish the knowledge of Severus’ infatuation and the next to be jealous of it. She has taken to mocking Mr Weasley’s family whenever he is not present and is slowly beginning to talk ill of it even when he is. Severus is unsure whether she means to help him in his endeavour to reconcile himself with Mr Weasley or to hinder his attempts.

“Just as I suspected, his sister has confirmed that he is unspoken for,” she confided in Severus only yesterday, smiling with glee.

That very same afternoon, she remarked, with obvious disdain, “He has not much to recommend him apart from being an excellent walker and being very apt at cutting through the woods.”

Then, earlier today, in reference to last evening, she said, “He is such a wonderful reader. How soft-spoken and lovely. And he is so very handsome, is he not?”

And after dinner, when Mr Weasley was once again by his sister’s side, she approached Severus and whispered to him, “I hope that if you are one day to marry him, you will quickly rectify that impertinence your young man possesses.”

Shortly after, as they sat in the parlour after Mr Weasley had retired for the night, she told Severus, while the others were discussing something else, “I fear you will not be able to put Mr Weasley’s portrait in the gallery at Prince Manor after you are married. In fact, you must not have it made at all, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes of his?”

The house is quiet and dark now, and Severus is wide awake, unable to find sleep. There is nothing but the scent. He cannot take a breath without it filling up his lungs. It is sweet and soft and wonderful. He cannot fathom how he has lived without it before, and he cannot imagine what his life will be without it when it is gone. It is everywhere, and yet it is not enough. He wants more of it, he wants to drink it, to let it consume him. He wants to leave his room and find the Omega and taste the scent directly from the source. He wants what he _cannot_ want, what he has never wanted before, what he did not know he _could_ want.

Severus does not sleep, and when dawn comes, he readies his horse himself. He cannot leave fast enough, and yet leaving the house is like cutting off a limb, like prying away a part of himself. He wants to return before he is even away. For hours, he wanders helplessly, begging God that the Weasleys will be gone when he returns. He does not know how long he can suffer through this. He wants this boy more than he has ever wanted anything in his life before. But he cannot have him, not like this. Severus is not one of those Alphas who take what is there simply because it is there. He will not give in. He _cannot_.

They are all seated in the parlour when he returns, having breakfast. Miss Weasley is amongst them, dressed and looking healthy. Her brother, however, is staring silently at his untouched plate while the others talk and laugh. He looks pale and feverish, and the hands on his lap are trembling. The scent is even stronger, and every breath Severus takes of it sends a tremor of lust through him – lust and longing and pain.

He is informed that although Miss Weasley is now better, she and her brother are to remain until the evening. A note has been sent to their mother this morning, demanding for the carriage to be sent, but another note informed them that the carriage is unavailable for the day and that they will have to be patient. With one last look to the silent, discreetly shaking Omega, Severus addresses Neville.

“May I speak with you a moment?” he asks the younger man, unable to completely hide the urgency.

Neville first frowns then nods and leaves his seat and his half-eaten breakfast before following Severus into the hall. “What is wrong?” he asks at once, as soon as they are alone.

“I believe you should provide Mr and Miss Weasley with the carriage.”

Neville smiles honestly, shaking his head. “I am happy to have them stay longer. I assure you it is no–”

“Neville,” Severus says in a low voice, unsure how to voice his concern. “Mr Weasley must go home at once. He must leave… He wants to but does not dare ask. I believe he is unaware of it himself, but he is… _unwell_.”

It does not take long for Neville to understand, and he nods at once, eyes widening in worry. “Oh. I will offer the carriage, of course. Severus, thank you for telling me,” he adds before rushing away to call a servant.

Neville, as is his nature, is very discreet and gallant about it, never once acting as if he has the slightest inkling of what the young Omega is going through. Mr Weasley, however, looks ready to cry with relief when it is announced that he can return home. He had been too polite, too afraid to ask. Too afraid to be mocked. Severus feels furious at them all for failing to notice his predicament.

His state seems to be worsening with each moment. By the time the carriage is ready, Mr Weasley’s sister is throwing worried looks at him and the young man’s legs are trembling under his weight. He looks ready to collapse. Unable to stop himself, Severus steps forward and offers his hand to help him climb into the carriage. The touch alone, however brief, sends a spark of lust through him, the scent strong and intoxicating.

Severus rushes back inside the house before the carriage has even departed, intent on finding refuge in his rooms and waiting there until the scent is completely gone. There is no escaping it now. The hand he touched the boy with is burning, trembling, longing for touch, wanting more. He wants to go back to his rooms and yet his feet carry him to the second floor. The maids are busy removing the sheets on Miss Weasley’s bed, but the Omega’s room is still untouched.

The scent in here is indescribable. Severus wants to lock himself inside and never leave. Severus wants to run away as far as he can. Before he knows it, he rushes to the bed, where the scent is strongest. He wants to curl up into the sheets, to wrap himself into them. In the next room, the maids giggle as they work, startling him, and like a thief, Severus grabs a pillowcase from the bed before running away, the piece of fabric clutched into his still-throbbing hand.

He slams the door shut as soon as he reaches his room, pressing his back to it, breathing hard, heart pounding.

Frantically, filled with shame but unable to stop himself, he undoes his breeches and grabs himself in hand at once, repressing a helpless, pained moan. He brings the stolen pillowcase to his face, inhales into it, bites into it, tasting the scent on his tongue, letting it flood his mouth. He is hard as a rock, his cock dripping, his knot already forming a pulsing, throbbing mass at the base. Severus stuffs as much of the pillowcase into his mouth as possible, tightens his other hand around the growing knot, stroking himself firmly.

He cannot help the images behind his eyelids as he brings himself to completion, roughly and desperately. The beautiful Omega underneath him, all _his_ to take, to claim. Green eyes shining with ecstasy. Helpless moans of pleasure. A pale, soft throat. He would press his lips to it, suck at it, sink his teeth into it.

Shameful and elated, Severus comes with a helpless grunt, biting hard into the pillowcase, with the taste of Harry Weasley filling his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -William Blake was an English poet and painter who published a number of gorgeous illuminated books, mostly around biblical themes. The book Mrs Nott shows Harry is _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_ , composed between 1790 and 1793.


	6. inherent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 6. I hope you will enjoy it because it was truly a pain to write. Note that I will be starting school next week, so I don't know when I'll be able to update next or at what sort of frequency the new chapters will be posted, but I promise I'll do my best to update as often as I can. 
> 
> Also note that claiming is open for the House of Snarry Auctoberfest until September 21st. There are still tons of interesting prompts available for anyone to write for. Feel free to check them out at snarryauctoberfest on Tumblr.
> 
> I am also on Tumblr as liladiurne. You're more than welcome to stop by and say hi.

* * *

**\- 6 -**

**inherent**

* * *

INHERENT, _a_. [ _inhérent_ , French; _inhaerens_ , Lat.]

Existing in something else, so as to be inseparable from it; innate; inborn.

\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

As someone who has always taken pride in being able to read others so well, the moment Harry realised how oblivious he had been to what was happening to his own body was nothing short of mortifying. 

He was sitting at breakfast, fighting a wave of nausea and desperately trying to hide it, when he finally understood. The discomfort turning into pain, the shivers turning into fever, and the scent… Most of all, it was the scent that alerted him, that of the only Alpha in the vicinity, growing and growing even when the man was not in the room, even when he was not in the _house_. Only one condition could cause all these symptoms, and Harry’s own stupidity for not realising it sooner was not lost on him – it only made the whole ordeal worse. To add to this humiliation, at the very moment awareness dawned on him, Miss Parkinson laughed shrilly. She was only reacting to something that was just said at the table, and Harry knew very well that it was not directed at him, but somehow her mirth cut through him like a knife, taunting him.

Sitting there, in the small, sunlit parlour, not only was Harry in nearly unbearable pain, but he was also filled with horror. While the guests conversed pleasantly, delighted and relieved to see Ginny well at last, all Harry could think about was Mr Snape. The Alpha’s scent was so strong by then that he could concentrate on nothing else, so strong even in the man’s absence. This absence in itself, however, was perhaps the only godsend in this whole torment. Had the man been present, Harry realised, he would be able to smell him, and he would know at once! Would he tell the others? Harry’s heart trembled at the thought of hearing those words spoken aloud, no doubt coldly, perhaps reproachfully. And what would the others say? How would they react? Would they be disgusted by him? Would they mock him? At least, with Mr Snape absent, Harry could try to hide it.

But nothing is ever so perfect, and when Mr Snape arrived, Harry wanted to disappear from this world. He had hoped the man would be gone all day, that he would not return until Harry had a chance to leave, until the carriage had finally been sent and he was already far away.

Needless to say, Mr Snape _did_ know at once. His eyes found Harry as soon as he walked into the parlour – as they _always_ do, of course, but this time it was differently. Harry could tell, even without looking up, even without looking back at him, that the man _knew_. The Alpha stood there in the doorway, rooted to the spot as it was explained to him that Harry and Ginny would stay the day once again, and hearing it repeated brought tears to Harry’s eyes, which he hoped he managed to hide properly. Through it all, he could feel Mr Snape’s heavy gaze on him, never leaving, never giving respite. He _knew_ , there was no doubt about it. Harry longed to run away – to run from him or, appallingly, to run _to him_. To run to his scent and let it envelop him. But he could not move. He was frozen with fear that Mr Snape might reveal his troubles for all to hear. The man had been looking for a way to humiliate him all along, had he not? And now that he was so gloriously presented with it, Harry was certain he would grasp the opportunity at once.

He did not. Not in front of everyone, at least. Instead, he asked to speak privately to Mr Longbottom in the hall, and when Mr Longbottom returned, he kindly announced that his carriage was ready to take Harry and his sister home and apologised for not offering it sooner. Harry knew, of course, the reason for this sudden feat of generosity, but he was so relieved to be permitted to leave that he could not find it in himself to be upset at Mr Snape for revealing his secret. At least he had done so discreetly, but Harry was in no state, nor did he have the slightest desire, to thank him for it. Mr Longbottom, assuredly, was courteous enough not to mention anything, for which Harry will be eternally grateful. If the young man was in any way disgusted or outraged by the news of Harry’s predicament, he showed no sign of it. He was as pleasant as always as they said farewell and assured Harry and Ginny that they were welcome to visit any time they wanted. Harry felt so ill by then that he could only nod jerkily and nearly fell trying to climb into the carriage.

It was then that Mr Snape approached and stood close by Harry’s side, offering a steady hand, which Harry took without hesitation, so feverish he could not find it in himself to refuse or even to be surprised at such gallantry. He regretted it a moment later, however, as at the mere touch of it a spark of pain erupted in his stomach, sending another wave of nausea through him. Harry let go of the man’s hand as if burned, not daring to look back at him, refusing to witness the expression of satisfaction or mockery that indubitably adorned Mr Snape’s face. Harry turned from the door, settling as far away from it as possible to press closer to the wall, relishing in the calm and dimness of the carriage, as Ginny finished saying her goodbyes. If the others thought him rude for making his own so brief, Harry paid them no mind, and mentally begged his sister to be prompt.

On the ride home, Harry finds himself hoping that he might be wrong in his assumptions, hoping that this pain, this state he is in, is not at all what it undeniably is. He would rather be gravely ill than… _this_. Even in his mind he refuses to say the word, refuses to give it shape, to make it real. He knew it would come eventually, because there is no escaping this, or so they say, but still a small part of him had always hoped that it might never happen at all, that there might be some semblance of justice in this world and that fate might forget about him, decide that he had done nothing to deserve this punishment. Because _punishment_ it is, there is no doubt about it now. Why would any sort of force, either fate or nature, want to subject _anyone_ to such pain, to such humiliation as this?

Harry rests his head against the wall of the carriage as pain shoots through his stomach again. It seems to be getting worse now, each cramp stronger, more severe than the one before. He feels so feverish he cannot hide the tremors in his limbs anymore, and sweat is soaking through his hair, dripping down his neck and back. No doubt he will be drenched by the time they reach The Burrow. The nausea is worse as well, and he must breathe deeply and steadily to keep it at bay. He can only hope he will not be sick in Mr Longbottom’s lovely coach – he is humiliated enough already.

Ginny is sitting close by his side, and though he looks away from her in shame, he knows the worry on her face without seeing it. “We’re nearly home,” she reassures gently. “Papa will call on Dr Granger at once and you’ll feel better soon.” As comforting as she manages to be, he can tell she is anxious and scared and hoping to convince herself as well.

Harry only nods his head faintly in response, fearing that he might be sick if he opens his mouth, and then whimpers as another wave of pain overtakes him.

“Oh, Harry,” Ginny moans, grasping his shaking hand. “ _Why_ did you not tell me? Surely you must have felt it coming–”

“It’s _not_ that!” Harry hisses through his teeth, pulling his hand away. “It _can’t_ be!”

Ginny reaches out to try and take his hand again, but when he flinches from her touch in irritation, she sighs softly and mutters, “Harry… It _has_ to be.”

He shakes his head, and a plaintive sob escapes his throat. “I _don’t_ want it!”

“We’re nearly home,” Ginny repeats soothingly. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Perhaps because of the fever, Harry’s thoughts seem to run away from him, to detach and evaporate like steam before he can catch them. They feel like the pebbles he sends skipping on the water near the old mill, flying swiftly on the calm surface, touching it only for a few brief moments before disappearing out of sight. He thinks about Lorenzo, in the book under the floorboards, and how fate struck him when he was trapped with a stranger. Is that not exactly what happened to Harry as well? He thinks about vile and brutish Riccardo and what he did to the poor Omega, and in Harry’s febrile mind, panic flares. Would the same thing have happened to him if he had been forced to stay the rest of the day as originally planned? Would dark and staring Mr Snape have cornered him like prey in a deserted corridor, dragged him into his room and ripped his clothes off? And then… Harry shivers, shutting his eyes tightly, wrapping both arms around his trembling frame as he imagines Mr Snape undressing, as he imagines the man’s hands on him, his mouth...

He feels it then, a strange convulsion that shoots through his whole body – not pain exactly, but something else. And then… warmth underneath him, sticky and damp, seeping through his trousers.

Ashamed and disgusted and in pain, Harry starts sobbing.

“Oh, Harry!” Ginny moans in distress.

“I _don’t_ want it!” he rasps again as another cramp shoots through his stomach, followed by more sticky dampness. He curls up on himself as much as he can in an attempt to stop it, to hold it in, but he has no control over his own body now. His vision blurs. He is gasping for breath. The world is closing in on him.

“We’re nearly home,” Ginny’s voice is saying, so close and yet so far. “Harry! Harry…”

He is lying in the long grass underneath the tree, watching a large bumblebee land on a flower. The air is sweet and the sunlight warm and pleasant. He is dozing off. There is no pain here.

He is in the field, and he is in the carriage. Ginny is there, and then she is gone. There are frantic voices, and there are the cicadas, buzzing loudly. He is lying in the grass. He is not in the carriage anymore. Strong, steady arms wrap around him. He is in the field. He is floating. He is…

“Yeh’ll be alright, lad,” a deep voice says in familiar, soothing tones. Harry rests his cheek against a warm chest, feels rough fabric on his skin, the scents of home and family…

He is not in the field. He is running on the moors. His foot catches on a rock. He is falling. He is floating…

There are sounds – voices, some calm, some frantic. Harry is suspended in the air, floating.

“Harry? Harry… wake up…”

He is not in the air. He is not on the moors. He is in a bed, _his_ bed. His room. Harry can breathe again. The strong, overwhelming scent of the Alpha is gone. There is the smell of the bedsheets, the candles, the wood, the old books. He is home.

“Mamma! Dr Granger is here!”

Harry is floating again, for a little while, and when he stops, there is the sound of the stairs creaking under running footsteps.

“–some water, and linens for the bed, plenty of them.”

Someone is adjusting the pillows under Harry’s head and he tries in vain to open his eyes. He is shivering uncontrollably, and the pain comes in nearly constant waves now.

“–looked unwell this morning, but I… I didn’t _know_ ,” a voice is saying, soft and hesitant, Ginny’s voice. “He said nothing about it. Nothing at all. And as soon as we were in the carriage, it… It was so fast… I didn’t know…”

“No need to fret, my dear.” A low, rumbling voice, gentle and familiar, and a movement nearby. “It is not impossible that he managed to repress the full extent of the symptoms until he felt safe enough.”

“It is not your fault, Ginny. We both know how stubborn your brother can be. If he did not want you to know, you couldn’t have known… Perhaps he did not know it himself.”

Hermione. Hermione is here. Harry wants to open his eyes, but he also wants to go floating again, somewhere safe and warm, where there is no pain.

“He fainted… I didn’t know what to do. Hagrid had to carry him inside.”

Someone is sitting on the bed now, a weight on the mattress. Then there is a cold hand on Harry’s forehead, pushing the sweaty hair away. Then there are fingers on his neck, finding spots on his throat where a different sort of pain is unbearably throbbing. Harry moans, trying to shift away from the touch. He opens his eyes slightly, and Dr Granger’s kind face comes into view.

“Harry,” the man says gently. “Don’t be afraid, child. You are in heat. It will pass.”

“No…” Harry moans brokenly.

“Shhh… Ginny, come here, my dear.” The touch of his fingers is lighter now, barely applying any pressure at all, but still the pain is sharp and lingering. “The scent glands are right here, you see? These swollen areas on the throat. They are very, very sensitive at this time. You will need to apply cloths soaked with cold water for relief and change them often. Can you do that?”

“Yes, yes, I will... do that…”

“There are areas on the inner thighs, as well. I will show you–”

“Mamma!” Harry calls out weakly, as another wave of striking pain erupts in his stomach.

“Shhh. Your mother is not far, Harry.”

“How long will it last?” Ginny asks.

Dr Granger, who is now checking Harry’s pulse at the wrist, shakes his head. “There is no way to know. It differs from one Omega to the other. But the first heat is always the worst.”

“No…” Harry protests weakly. “I don’t want it…”

Dr Granger takes Harry’s hand in his own, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeats. “I will give you something for the pain. Everything will be fine. I swear to you.” He looks back at the two girls, their silhouettes barely defined in Harry’s swimming vision. “He will have to be bathed with cold water, to keep the fever down. And change the sheets and his nightclothes every few hours. We want him to be as comfortable as possible. The production of discharge is uncontrollable, and it can be unpleasant–”

“ _No_ …” Harry cries out, conscious enough of his surroundings now to be mortified again. This is not real. This is _not_ happening.

“Shhh… He will have to drink plenty of water as well. I will explain all of this to your mother, Ginny. Hermione will stay and help.”

“Why… why _now_?” Ginny asks. “Why is it happening _now_ , after all this time? I thought perhaps–”

“Heat is inherent to Omega nature, my dear. It was always meant to happen, sooner or later. Has he been in close proximity to any new Alphas of late? This could have initiated an involuntary response.”

“There was… there was Mr Snape at the manor,” Ginny mumbles.

“ _No!_ ” Harry cries out again, and another spasm of pain shoots through his stomach. And the wetness again, damp and sticky on his thighs. “Not _him_ … please, no…”

“Harry,” Dr Granger whispers, cupping the side of his face gently, “you’re safe now. We will take care of you. Don’t be afraid. Hermione, will you get the laudanum from my bag?”

The liquid Dr Granger pours down Harry’s throat is thick and bitter and causes another wave of nausea to wreak through him.

“Swallow, Harry,” he hears the doctor’s voice say as the man’s face fades in and out of his field of vision. “There, now. Breathe. You’ll feel better. Sleep, Harry. You’re safe…”

Harry is floating again, drifting away. The pain is gone.

_He is seven years old. He is running on the moors. The sky is dark and cloudy and rumbling._

_“Wait for me!” he calls out, but the four silhouettes are nearly out of sight already. “Wait!”_

_His foot catches on a rock and he falls roughly, meeting the ground so suddenly the breath is knocked out of his chest. He remains there for a time, gasping, trying to call out to the others, but the words are not coming out. He can only manage a small whimper of distress, and its only answer is a clap of thunder in the distance._

_He walks home limping, cradling his left arm, caked in blood and dirt. His trousers are ripped at the knee and the skin underneath feels raw and throbbing. The urge to cry is burning behind his eyes, but he refuses to. Crying is bad, even if Papa says that Harry will not be punished if he does. Charlie never cries, and Harry wants to be like Charlie._

_Harry slips in quietly through the back door, trying to alert no one to his presence. There are loud voices in the kitchen – Winky arguing with Hagrid again – the noise allowing Harry to pass by unnoticed and head straight for his father’s study._

_“Papa?” he mumbles quietly as he enters, only to find the room deserted. “Papa?”_

_His knee is burning sharply now, the torn fabric of his trousers sticky with blood, and a small sob escapes his throat._

_“Harry?” his mother’s voice asks sharply from behind him. “What is it?”_

_Harry startles, hunching his shoulders. He does not answer, feeling the pang of fear, of panic that strikes through him whenever his name is called impatiently, whenever someone approaches too rapidly, whenever he sees anger flare on someone’s face. He knows he should not be afraid here. No one has ever hurt him here. And yet he has not managed to rid himself of the fear yet, not completely._ It will pass _, Papa always says gently._ Slowly, with time, it will pass _._

_There is the rustle of his mother’s dress as she approaches, but when she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Your father is out, Harry. What do you want?” She takes him by the shoulders, forcing him to turn and face her. “Oh, what did you do now?” she gasps when she sees the state of him, shaking her head, but she is not angry, her face is soft._

_“I fell,” he mumbles. “They wouldn’t wait for me.”_

_“Who wouldn’t wait for you?”_

_“Ron and Seamus… and Terry and Justin,” Harry says, avoiding her eyes. “They went to the mill… through the moors. I wanted to go, but… I fell,” he repeats, looking down at the floor, observing the old wood. “I’m sorry…”_

_His mother sighs, shaking her head. “I am not mad at you, sweetheart. Come now, let me look at you.”_

_She bends down and hoists him up into her arms like she did at the beginning, when he was little, and Harry lets her, resting his chin on her shoulder. He likes to be held. Even now, when he should be too old, when he should have grown out of it, he likes to be held. Ron always fights and whines and wriggles away, but Harry likes it. He closes his eyes and lets his mother carry him into the kitchen, now deserted. The shouting is coming from the yard outside, where Harry imagines Winky has followed after Hagrid, brandishing her rolling pin menacingly._

_Harry’s mother sits him down on the counter and rolls the leg of his trousers to expose his dirtied, bleeding knee. She winces at the sight, shaking her head, but she does not look mad, only irritated._

_“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats._

_She clicks her tongue. “Oh, don't you worry. This is not the worst injury I have seen, believe me,” she says, somewhat grumpily, but there is a small, reassuring smile on her lips as she fetches one of the clean linens Winky keeps in a drawer and soaks it with water._

_Harry sniffles as she washes the wound, wincing, but he keeps quiet, biting on his lip. The cloth rapidly becomes tinged with red. He whimpers as she wipes at a particularly raw spot._

_“You can cry if you want to,” she whispers, throwing him a careful glance. “You know that, don’t you?”_

_Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to.”_

_She lets out a little huff of breath, a laugh, maybe._

_“They never wait for me… They hate me,” he mumbles, holding back tears._

_She shakes her head, a long strand of red hair falling into her eyes. “Oh, they don’t hate you, Harry. You’re just… different.”_

_“Everyone says that, but I don’t understand.”_

_She looks away now, as she always does whenever he asks about this. “It’s… complicated, sweetheart. We will explain when you’re older.”_

_“Is it because I smell odd? Cormac always says I smell odd. Are you going send me away?” Harry asks, barely able to keep the panic at bay._

_His mother sets the dirty cloth down and takes his face into her hands gently, looking at him closely. “Never. We will never send you away. I promise you. You’re my little boy, and I am your Mamma. Do you understand that?”_

_“Yes, Mamma,” he mumbles, the urge to cry stronger than ever now._

_“Good. Now I don’t want to hear any more of that nonsense,” she says, scolding. “Let me see your arm. After that, I was thinking we might have some cake. What do you think?”_

_Harry smiles at the prospect, but when he looks up, the breath catches in his throat._

_There is a silhouette standing in the doorway, a darkly clad man, very tall. He is staring at Harry fixedly. Harry cannot see his face, but the very sight of him ignites a spark of fear._

“No!” he cries out. “No… not him… Mamma!”

“Shhh… I’m here, Harry.”

There is a hand pushing his hair away, caressing his face. Harry inhales sharply as numbing pain streaks through him, but there is his mother’s scent close by his side and he feels relief, intense relief. Her hand clasps his tightly.

“Don’t let him take me…”

“No one is taking you away. Sleep. You’re safe…”

A kiss on his forehead. Harry tries to open his eyes but cannot manage it. Sleep is here again, dragging him away.

“Mamma…”

“I’m here, sweetheart…”

_Harry dreams about his mother. Not Mamma, but his real mother. Light is coming into a dim room. There are soft touches. She is rocking him gently. Her skin is very pale, like milk. He buries his face into her neck. She smells warm and safe. She has red hair like Mamma. He grasps at the long strands with his small fingers. She sings to him softly, humming. He cannot see her face or her eyes, only glimpses, fleeting images._

There are hands on him, lifting his shoulders, holding him. They are removing his nightshirt. The fabric drags on his skin, damp with sweat. There are cold cloths on his legs, wiping away the thick substance that sticks to his thighs, that burns his skin. His whole body feels raw and fragile. There are voices, though Harry is not awake long enough to understand them.

_He is racing Charlie down the wooded path leading to the old mill. He is nine years old, and Charlie has promised to show him how to skip stones today. The sky is blue and full of thick, fluffy clouds._

_“You need a flat one. Like this one, see?” Charlie says, holding out the pebble for Harry to observe. The bright sunlight makes his hair shine red like fire. “You hold it like this. Look. Steady, and you throw your arm back, and you send it flying. With your wrist. Like this!”_

_Harry laughs in delight as his brother sends the stone flying on the still water. It skips quickly, once, twice, three times, four times, five times…_

Someone is holding his head up. Harry struggles to open his eyes, manages to, only for a second, sees his mother’s face, her brow furrowed with worry.

“Where’s… Charlie…?” Harry slurs, his tongue heavy and numb.

“Shhh… Drink, Harry. Here, drink.”

Something cold against his lips. Cold liquid down his throat. Harry drinks avidly, gasping in relief as it slides down his throat.

As soon as his head touches the pillow again, sleep carries him away.

_Harry is fifteen and wandering around Hogsmeade with Ron. Papa has asked them to stop at Mr Burkes’ shop and inquire about a cabinet he is having made for the drawing room. Harry has never been to this shop, uninterested by carpentry and woodwork, but as soon as they enter, the smell of wood dust and chippings and the sight of the intricately carved chairs and wardrobes fascinate him. He wanders around, looking at the different pieces of furniture while Ron walks up to the shop owner._

_“My father sent me to ask about a cabinet,” Harry hears his brother say. Ron sounds impatient to leave – Seamus and Justin have made a raft out of old wood planks and they plan to try and use it to cross the river this afternoon._

_“Yes, it is nearly finished,” a deeper voice answers as Harry wanders away deeper into the shop. “Only a few more days.”_

_“I will tell him, thank you. Harry? Where did you go?”_

_Near the back of the shop, Harry has discovered some shelves lined with little wooden figurines, beautifully carved and detailed. There is a little man holding an axe, and a woman carrying a basket. There are some children as well. There are animals – a cow, a sheep, a horse, and a small cat. Harry is particularly interested in the cat. It looks a little bit like Hedwig, but it is so small it could fit in the palm of Harry’s hand._

_“Harry, come!” Ron calls out, annoyed, already standing near the door. “Harry!”_

_“Do you like them?” a voice asks nearer to Harry, and he turns to see the shop owner has approached him and is referring to the little wooden figurines._

_“Oh yes, they are beautiful,” Harry says. “Do you make them?”_

_“I do,” the man says at once, proudly. He is older than Harry’s father, with dark, balding hair and watery blue eyes. He stares fixedly at Harry, his nostrils flaring._

_Harry points at the cat. “I have a cat just like it. Her name is Hedwig.”_

_“I sell them, but you can… choose one if you want. A gift,” the man adds, his eyes never leaving Harry._

_“Oh, I couldn’t–”_

_“Take it,” the man urges. “A beautiful cat for… a beautiful boy–”_

_Ron has reached them, and he grabs Harry’s arm somewhat roughly. “Come!” he says urgently. “We have to go. I will tell my father,” he repeats to the old man, but Harry is under the impression that he is not talking about the cabinet this time. “Come, Harry!” he insists, dragging him away._

_Harry leaves, his heart heavy. He should have taken the cat when it was offered. It would have looked beautiful on his desk._

_As soon as they are outside, Ron lets go of his arm and frowns at him, his face flushed red in anger. “Are you stupid?”_

_Harry frowns back. “Why? What did I do?” he snaps. “You were so rude–”_

_Ron gapes at him in disbelief. “I was rude? Didn’t you see the way he looked at you? He’s an Alpha,” he hisses._

_“How do you mean?”_

_“You are an idiot,” Ron says more softly. “I have an idiot for a brother. Never come here by yourself, will you? I’m going to tell Father–”_

_“Tell him what?”_

_Ron shakes his head, grabs Harry’s arm again. “Forget about it. Come now, idiot.”_

“–two days now!” Mamma’s voice is saying, high and trembling and afraid. “It hasn’t gone down yet! Not one bit! _How_ can you know he will be fine?”

Harry tries to open his eyes, can only manage it for a second. Dr Granger is sitting on the edge of his bed. There is a hand on his forehead, another one checking his pulse.

“There is never any way to know how long heats last, Molly.” The voice is soft and reassuring. “There is nothing to be done, we can only wait.”

Mamma is sobbing now. “Please don’t let him die…”

“He will not die–”

“He’s my little boy…”

Harry tries to open his eyes, wants to reach out to her, but sleep is dragging him away again.

_He is five years old now. He is hiding under the large desk in Papa’s study, arms wrapped around his shaking knees. He is shivering with fear, holding back tears. He cannot cry. Crying is bad._

_“Harry?” Papa’s voice calls somewhere in the house. “Harry, come out. I am not angry with you.”_

_The footsteps walk by in the corridor and Harry curls up on himself, wanting to disappear, begging to disappear. He lets out a shaky breath as the steps continue on, heading towards the stairs._

_He never meant to break the vase. He was chasing Ron and he bumped into the table. He never meant to break anything. Breaking things is bad, and Harry knows he is in terrible trouble._

_“Harry?” Papa’s voice, gentle and soothing, comes from the parlour now._

_The footsteps are coming closer and closer. Harry sees the shadow of feet enter the room. He curls up further, his back pressed against the wood of the desk, trembling uncontrollably._

_“Harry?” Papa asks softly. “Are you in here?”_

_A moment later, the chair is pushed away, and he is there, crouching behind the desk, peering at Harry._

_“Ah,” he says in admiration, his mouth curling into a gentle smile. “This is a clever place to hide. I never thought of it!”_

_He folds his body in a ridiculous way and crawls in next to Harry, taking up nearly all the available space under the desk. He has to bend his neck to fit here, in a way that seems quite painful, but he looks completely at ease. He sighs in satisfaction, smiling at Harry. Harry wants to smile back, but fear tightens around his heart still and he sniffles, repressing a sob._

_“Harry,” Papa says gently when he remains quiet. “I am not angry with you. I won’t hurt you. We don’t hurt people here.”_

_“I didn’t mean to…” Harry mumbles, repressing a sob._

_“I know that. It was an accident. You don’t have to be afraid here, and you don’t have to hide. No one will hurt you. I promise I will always protect you–”_

Harry gasps in shock, startling awake as his whole body is engulfed in coldness. He tries to yell but can only whimper.

“Shhh… Calm down, Harry… Ginny, hold his head. There we go… Steady now.”

He is being lowered into a basin, the shock of the cold water making him shiver violently. He tries to fight but his limbs are heavy and weak.

“Papa!” he cries out in fear, his hand grasping the edge of the basin, trying to haul himself out.

Ginny’s fearful, worried voice. “Mamma…”

“There now. Don’t worry, Ginny, he will be just fine. We have to keep the fever down. Shhh… Harry… You’ll be fine, sweetheart. Shhh…”

Cold water is being poured on his hair, sliding down the back of his neck and over his shoulders. It feels good. Harry sighs in relief, resting his cheek against his mother’s arm as she runs fingers through his hair. Sleep is here again, so near. Harry lets it carry him away…

_“I knew I would find you here,” Charlie says as he approaches._

_Harry wipes at his eyes, looking away as his brother sits on the grass next to him. The afternoon sun is unbearably warm, but it is nice and cool in the shadow of the tree. Harry wraps his arms around his knees like he used to do as a child. He has never grown out of this habit, even now that he is thirteen years old. He looks into the distance at the long, dancing grass and the wildflowers. Silence is heavy between them._

_“Are you ever going to speak to me again?” Charlie asks after a long moment._

_“No,” Harry snaps._

_Charlie scoffs, amused. “You spoke just now.”_

_Harry keeps looking away, anger burning inside his chest. “You want to go, then go and leave me alone,” he says coldly._

_Charlie sighs, the breath shaking out of him. “Harry… Please…” he starts before trailing off. “I can’t leave you like this… I can’t leave if you are upset–”_

_“Then don’t leave!” Harry cries out, his voice breaking, tears welling up in his eyes._

_“I have to, Harry. Look at me.”_

_Harry turns to him. Tears are streaming down his face now, even if he tried everything to stop them. Charlie’s eyes are very clear, as if he is holding back tears of his own._

_“I want to go,” he tells Harry. “I have to. This is what I always wanted. There is nothing else for me to do. I can’t go to London and… study law. That is not me, I would be miserable. I am not like Bill. I can’t do anything else.”_

_“That’s not true!” Harry sobs, uncaring that he sounds like a whiny child. “You can stay here, with me.”_

_Charlie sighs shakily. “Harry…”_

_A tremor of fear shoots through Harry’s body. “I don’t want you to die!” he cries out brokenly._

_Charlie reaches out for him at once, wrapping him in his arms, holding him tightly. “I will not die…”_

_“It’s war! That’s what soldiers do…” Harry gasps into his brother’s shoulder. “They go and… and they die…”_

_“Not me,” Charlie says fiercely. “I will not die. I will come back, I promise you.”_

Steady hands are holding his head up and cold, delicious water is being poured down his throat again. Harry cannot open his eyes. Everything about his body is heavy. He swallows and swallows, nearly choking, but the hands are there to hold him up. Then the water is replaced by the thick, bitter liquid, but Harry swallows it as well, because it makes the pain go away.

There is something cold on the back of his neck, cold and wonderful. And something cold on his throat, where the pain throbs. Mamma is there nearby. Harry can smell her. He tries to call out to her, but he cannot speak.

“Sleep,” she mutters into his ear.

_Harry is ten years old. His tutor is a gangly young man with a head of thick, curly blond hair and a pointy little nose that gives him the air of a small forest animal. Papa insists that he came highly recommended, but Harry does not like him much. He does not like the way Bertrand looks at him. Bertrand is very educated and intelligent, but he seems to take great pleasure in belittling Harry. Harry is always eager to learn, but with Bertrand, the lessons are very boring. Harry misses his previous tutor. Mr Flitwick was a tiny old man with lots of grey hair coming out of his ears, but he was always kind to Harry, and very patient. But Harry’s father has decided he wants someone younger now that Harry is older, because there are things that old Mr Flitwick is not comfortable teaching him. Bertrand is only a few years older than Charlie, but Charlie does not like him much either._ Bertie _, he greets him with a smirk every time he sees him in the house, taking great joy in the way the name makes Bertrand flush with anger._

_This morning, Bertrand arrives carrying a heavy, leather bound book that he carefully sets down on the table in Harry’s father's study, slowly opening it as if it were a precious relic._

_“Your father has asked me to talk to you about human reproduction,” Bertrand announces in something like annoyance. “It is not a subject that I find very appealing, and I don’t like to repeat myself. You will listen attentively, and I will question you afterwards. Understand?”_

_Harry only nods. Bertrand prefers nods to answers, and he despises questions._

_Bertrand flips the page and presents Harry with three very detailed drawings of male anatomy. Harry’s eyes widen. BETA MALE REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEM, the title announces boldly over the first drawing, the other two similarly described for the Alpha and then the Omega._

_“This is what is inside of your body,” Bertrand says impatiently, pointing at the last picture. “You will notice how the Omega male differs from the Beta and Alpha males by the absence of testes, right here. In the Omega, the testes are inside the body, and serve the role of ovaries, as in the female body here,” he explains, briefly showing Harry the three drawings on the next page, representing female anatomy._

_“Omega?” Harry asks, confused._

_Bertrand sighs in annoyance. “Yes, Omega. That’s what you are. A male Omega. It means that you are male, but you possess a uterus. This part here,” Bertrand adds, pointing at a strangely shaped blob on the drawing. “Therefore, you can carry children. Male Omegas are quite uncommon.”_

_“Oh,” Harry says quietly, his eyes never leaving the blob. “Is that why everyone in town stares at me?”_

_“Possibly,” Bertrand says with a shrug. “Omegas are an anomaly of nature, some think.”_

_“A mistake, you mean?”_

_Bertrand sighs heavily once more. “Stop asking questions. I’m not finished. The Alpha’s testes are considerably larger, as you can see here, because the production of semen is greater compared to the Beta male, to ensure conception.”_

_Harry says nothing, only stares at the pictures._

_“As you can see, the Alpha not only has larger testes, but also a larger penis, and it grows larger when aroused,” Bertrand explains, more slowly now, as if taking pleasure in the shocked expression on Harry’s face. “When an Alpha engages in sexual intercourse, the penis’_ bulbus glandis _enlarges at the base and keeps the Alpha’s semen inside to ensure fertilisation.”_

_“But how–” Harry starts before being interrupted._

_“As an Omega, once you come of age, you will go into heat approximately once every ninety days. Your ovaries will then release an unfertilised egg–”_

_“An egg?”_

_“Stop interrupting!” Bertrand scolds. “During a heat, your body releases pheromones and produces a scent that is very attractive to Alphas and will incite in them the need to mate and breed.”_

_“But I don’t want that,” Harry mumbles, though he is not quite sure what it all means._

_“You don’t have a choice,” Bertrand snaps. “It is nature. You can do nothing about it. Omegas are prey. And once they reach breeding age, they possess the most heightened sense of smell so that they can protect themselves more easily against predators. Alphas are predators. During breeding, the Alpha’s enlarged penis will penetrate your body through the rectum and all the way into the anal cervix, which only opens when triggered by the heat pheromones. You cannot conceive outside of heat.”_

_“What’s heat?”_

_“I just told you! Are you not listening? When you are older, you will go into heat. This means you have reached breeding age…”_

_As Bertrand rambles on, Harry cannot take his eyes off the illustrations. The Alpha’s… penis… looks so big. Bertrand says it has to penetrate him. But how can that be possible? Why would anyone want that?_

_“…during childbirth, the anal cervix will open again to allow–”_

_“I don’t want that,” Harry says, shaking his head. “No. I don’t want any of that.”_

_Bertrand pauses, a haughty sort of sneer forming on his face, and he regards Harry with his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re an Omega. What else could you possibly want?”_

_“I don’t know, but I don’t want that,” Harry says, fearful but resolute._

_“Breeding is all Omegas are good for, Harry. You must understand–”_

_“What did you just say?” Mr Weasley's voice asks and they both turn, not having heard the man enter the study._

_“Mr Weasley,” Bertrand says with a sigh, shaking his head, “you must make your son understand that–”_

_Harry’s father’s face is red and furious, and he grabs Bertrand by his collar. “You… You vile little… Get out of my house!”_

_“Mr Weasley!” Bertrand squeals in surprise as Harry’s father roughly drags him out of the room._

_“Get out of my house this instant!” Mr Weasley bellows._

Harry’s mouth is dry, incredibly dry. His body is heavy and numb. Everything is numb.

He opens his eyes, struggling out of the numbness. It is dark, except for a few candles, and there are the sounds of the night coming from the open window. Hermione is sitting by his bed, reading. Mamma is asleep in the armchair. There is a tall, dark silhouette in the corner of the room, standing near the stairs.

“No…” Harry slurs, trying to move, desperate to run far away, but his body is so heavy he cannot even lift his head from the pillow.

“Harry,” Hermione says, setting her book down and leaning over him. “Shhh… Calm down, Harry.” She sets a gentle hand on his forehead. “Are you in pain?”

“Don’t let him take me,” he rasps fearfully, eyes still fixed on the ominous shape.

“No one is here, Harry. You have a fever. I promise you no one is taking you away. Close your eyes and go back to sleep. It will be over soon…”

He cannot keep his eyes open any longer. Grasping Hermione’s hand as tightly as he can through the numbness, Harry drifts away again.

_He does not know how old he is. He is not sure his name is really Harry – they call him Boy most of the time. The blonde lady and the large man always shout, and they are not his Mamma and Papa. Harry must not call them that or they will hurt him. There is another little boy here, but Harry is not allowed to play with him. Because Harry is dirty. Harry is bad and the other boy is good._

_When there are guests, Harry is sent away at once, because he must not be seen. He is dirty. But one day, a stranger comes, a tall man dressed all in black, and the lady grips tightly onto Harry’s shoulders and she lets the tall man see him. He looks at Harry for a long time before nodding his head, and the lady takes Harry into the next room and tells him to wait there and be quiet. Harry is good at doing what he is told. If he does not, they will hurt him. He sits in the corner, wraps his arms around his knees, and he waits. He is good at waiting. He waits and listens to the voices. He cannot hear the words, only echoes. The large man sounds upset, but the tall stranger’s voice is steady and cold._

_He does not know how long he has been in this house, or why. He does not like it here, but he would never say so, because they will hurt him. He was somewhere else before, but he cannot remember where. He thinks he might have been with his Mamma before, but he will not ask, because they will hurt him._

_He waits for a long time, so long that he falls asleep, there in the corner, on the floor. When he is awakened, it is by the tall stranger, who tells him, in his cold and steady voice, that Harry is to come with him now. That Harry is_ his _now._

_It is the middle of the night when they leave. Harry cries a little, but he stops when the man hits him. He does not cry again after that. He is good at being quiet._

The next time Harry wakes, his eyes are not as heavy, and when he opens them, it is to the dim light of late afternoon. He does not shiver as much as before, though he feels intensely, deeply tired, more tired than he has ever felt before in his life. His bedroom is quiet and warm, and his mother is sitting close by his bed, knitting and humming softly under her breath.

“Mamma?” he mutters. His throat feels raw and dry, and his tongue is numb and strange, like it does not belong in his mouth. There is a horrible taste, like he has eaten something rotten.

She drops her knitting at once and nearly jumps out of her chair to come and sit on his bed. “Harry… sweetheart,” she says, her voice breaking. Her hand is on his forehead, then on his cheeks, and on his neck, searching for the fever, but she seems relieved.

Harry moans. He is so, so thirsty. He tries to say the words but cannot manage it. His throat is so dry, his mouth so numb. She seems to understand and brings a cup of water to his lips, holding his head up as he drinks. Then she rests his head slowly on the pillow and takes his hand in hers, kissing his knuckles.

“You scared me, sweetheart,” she says shakily, her eyes never leaving his face. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” he slurs. “I’m… heavy…”

“Dr Granger says the medicine does that. You will feel better soon. You just need to rest a little more.”

“The tall man… before…” Harry says suddenly, trying to tell her before he forgets, but his mouth cannot form the words fast enough, and his head is still cloudy. “I thought it was Mr Snape… but he came before… I think it was him… He took me away and said to be quiet… and I thought he came back…”

“Shhh,” Mamma says softly. “You need to sleep, Harry. Just a little more…”

“My Mamma… she had red hair… like yours…” he mumbles. “I forget but… sometimes I remember…”

She pauses and looks at him gently, and he sees her eyes filling with tears. “Just close your eyes, sweetheart.”

He is so tired, so incredibly tired. He lets out a strange wheezing sound that he meant to be a laugh. “You haven’t called me… sweetheart,” he says slowly, “since I was…”

“Oh, Harry,” Mamma whispers, kissing his hand again. “You’ll always be my sweetheart… my little boy… I was so afraid,” she adds, and a sob escapes her throat.

Harry tries to keep his eyes open, but her face is blurred by the sunlight behind her, wisps of red hair shining around her face like fire.

“I want to tell you that I’m sorry,” she says slowly, and Harry tries to listen attentively even through the numbness and the tiredness. “I have been… I have treated you differently and I… I know that sometimes I am harsh with you, but… I only want you to be strong. You _have_ to be strong. The world is dangerous, and I want you to be ready. I want you to be safe, but I know I cannot protect you from it all. I am afraid for you. I want you to be my little boy and to stay safe, here, with me. But you have to be strong, and I was only trying to… I want you to be happy…”

Harry tries to speak, but he cannot. He is fighting sleep. It is so near. It is right there. He cannot keep his eyes open.

“I am so proud,” Mamma says with a small sob. “You are intelligent and brave and kind. You deserve everything… I am… so proud of you… I was so afraid…”

Harry closes his eyes. He cannot fight it anymore. He floats away, letting his mother’s voice lull him to sleep.

* * *

Suffice it to say that Severus ends up missing the mayor’s ball. No doubt Pansy will never let him forget it, but as there has been no hammering at his door, no shouting about Neville being engaged to the dim-witted McLaggen girl by the time he finally emerges from his room days later, it seems his absence has caused no lasting harm. Missing this ball was, however, the only good thing to come out of his prolonged isolation, for Severus truly had a miserable time of it.

Since he came of age at eighteen – a perfectly average age for Alphas – Severus’ ruts have come with dependable regularity. For over twenty years, he has carefully planned his life and his travels around them, so that they have never become a nuisance, merely an inconvenience. He has spent most of them alone, no matter how unbearable loneliness can become during those times, as children out of wedlock is not something he would ever dare inflict on the world – not to mention it would indubitably provoke the wrath of his uncle. For twenty-two years, Severus has lived a normal life of perfectly regular, unnoticed ruts – the life of a respectable Alpha. And then came Harry Weasley. If Severus were not so completely enamoured with the young man, if he did not worship him so, he would curse him aloud.

It is popular belief that Omega pheromones will send any Alpha in the vicinity into an unexpected rut. It is a widespread conviction that Severus has even heard from the mouth of very intelligent and knowledgeable men, but it is, in fact, thought to be a common occurrence simply because it is known to have occurred. It is there in the unsavoury discussions of unsavoury people and it plays a big part in unsavoury stories – in the sort of books Julian sneers at but devours nonetheless. But it is not an established norm, nor an infallible certainty. One does not simply lose control as soon as they are presented with any Omega in his time. Severus had always thought it merely happens to the weak Alphas, to the ones unable to control their urges. Until it happened to _him_.

He blamed the boy at first, but not for long, and by the time it is over, all anger – if it even _was_ anger – has left him. He cannot quite find it in him to be angry with Mr Weasley – God knows the Omega must be having a hard enough time without it. It was not his fault, this… unfortunate turn of events. In fact, it might very well be Severus’ own fault. The boy obviously was unused to the company of Alphas before sharing a house and being forced to dine and sup with one for two days. Yes, it might be Severus’ fault, or perhaps he is only _hoping_ it is. Part of him takes pride in the idea of being the one responsible for causing the beautiful Omega’s very first heat. Every time the thought crosses his mind, however, he is filled with shame. He should not be proud of this, not in the slightest. Why would he be pleased to cause the boy such trouble and distress? At least he can take comfort in the thought that he managed to get Mr Weasley safely home before this… _situation_ got too dire.

It lasted longer than a regular rut – nearly four days instead of two – and the presence of the stolen pillowcase, though it seemed a good idea at the beginning, only made things worse. Each time Severus thought he was done, that it was over, each time he fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep, the boy’s scent emanating from the soon soiled piece of fabric brought the urge back. He wanted it out of his sight because it was the physical proof of his shame, and yet he could not bring himself to get rid of it. The state of it by the end only served to remind him of his depravity. Seeing the pillowcase, on which the boy’s head had once innocently rested, now damp with saliva and semen, now not only impregnated with the Omega’s scent but with Severus’ own as well, brought upon him not only a profound sentiment of self-loathing that he would be unable to describe if he tried, but also a feeling of glorious presumption. There is intense possessiveness as well, even when it is over, an instinct Severus has never known before this day. Through all the shame and the regret, there is a desire and a conviction that one day, sooner or later, Severus will have more than a pillowcase with which to satiate his urges.

He bathes and dresses and, pitying the poor maids who will have to clean after him, Severus leaves his room at last. But not before making absolutely certain that the pillowcase is well-hidden amongst his personal belongings. He will die before he lets anyone glimpse at the object of his shame.

He finds Neville alone in the small library, pouring over his father’s journals as always. There is no sign of the others.

“You’re alive,” the young man says when he enters, looking up only briefly. “I was beginning to wonder if I should call the doctor.”

“I am well now,” Severus only says.

Having grown up with him, Neville knows him well enough to notice that he was _indisposed_ for longer than usual. Perhaps even to notice that it was not meant to happen before another month at least, but if he does, he decides not to mention this.

“I suspect my father may have been much different than how he was described to me,” Neville remarks with a sort of pensive air as he turns a page of the journal on his knees. “Perhaps the people who knew him did not know him at all.”

Severus sits down across from him in a plush armchair, letting out a sigh as he does. He is terribly, terribly sore. “Where is everyone?”

“Pansy and Astoria are spending the day in town, at the invitation of Mrs Bones, I believe. Astoria has made friends with her daughter. God knows where Theodore is,” Neville says distractedly.

“What did you mean about your father?”

Neville shuts the journal and looks at him, frowning. “His writings are strange sometimes. He goes from one subject to another, almost as in a code. But I am not clever enough to understand what it means, if it really _is_ a code, of course. It might just be my imagination… Are you certain you’re well? You look terrible.”

“I had a particularly terrible time,” Severus says briefly. This is as much as he is willing to say about it, even to Neville.

Neville hums in something like understanding, though he could not possibly understand. “You… appreciate Harry Weasley’s company, do you not?” he asks slowly.

Severus scoffs. “I doubt I have been able to hide it well.”

Neville smiles. “Perhaps you have been, but not from me.” He pauses, puts the journal aside and settles back more comfortably in his armchair, regarding Severus carefully. “I am afraid he does not share your… appreciation.”

This time, Severus laughs dryly. “Of that I am aware. In addition to this, I made the idiotic mistake of informing Pansy of my inclination. She now seems determined to make my life impossible… More than before, that is.”

Neville snorts, his eyes brimming with amusement. “You brought it on yourself, Severus. For that you’ll find no sympathy from me. But it all makes sense now,” he adds more seriously, “why you have chosen to remain here so long.”

Severus sighs heavily. “I have been pondering how to… how to redeem myself in Mr Weasley’s eyes, but it is no easy task. You know how I am. These… interactions are not something in which I particularly excel. To add to that, Mr Weasley proves…”

“He proves as stubborn as you are?” Neville provides, smirking.

“In essence,” Severus says grimly.

“It was abhorrent, what you said that first night. You do know that, don’t you?” Neville chastises him. “Not to mention completely untrue. It is perfectly reasonable for him to be wary of you now.”

“I know, I know. Stop nagging me about it,” Severus snaps. “I regret it, but I cannot very well walk up to him and apologise for–”

“Why ever not? Why would you not do that instead of trying to scheme your way into his good graces? An apology would fix everything, I am sure.”

“I am not the apologising type, Neville.”

“Perhaps you should become the type and see what good comes of it.”

They fall silent for a time, regarding each other with both irritation and fondness.

“I am truly fond of his sister,” Neville admits softly. “More than I believe I should be. And I… I am at a loss to know if… if she might feel the same.”

Severus shakes his head. “I am afraid I cannot help you there, unfortunately,” he says with a sigh. “What a miserable pair we make, don’t you think?”

Neville sighs heavily, but he smiles. “What a miserable pair indeed.”


	7. origin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dears! It's been a little while, as I've been busy with school, but I'm back. I was planning to introduce two very important characters in this chapter, but it was running a bit long, so I decided to split the fun. There will be one introduced here, and another next chapter. Also, Severus' part is a bit shorter this time, but I hope you will love this chapter anyway!

* * *

**\- 7 -**

**origin**

* * *

ORIGIN, _s_. [ _origo_ , Latin]

  1. Beginning; first existence.
  2. Fountain; source; that which gives beginning or existence.
  3. First copy; archetype.
  4. Derivation; descent.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

The first thing he notices upon waking is the smells. There are the usual ones, the ones he smells every morning – those of his bedroom, so familiar he never gives them a second thought. But now there are others too, just as sharp and distinct. Even with his eyes closed, only from those scents, Harry knows _everything_ happening in the house.

Hedwig is napping on the floor. He can smell her fur and the food on her breath. Ginny is sitting in the armchair nearby, waiting for him to wake up. Her presence is calming. Just from her scent, Harry knows that his torment is now over. Hermione was here earlier – her scent is lingering. Though he did not know before today that she had one, it is here still, the same one that clings to her dress, impossible to describe but undoubtedly hers. Mamma spent the night in here, but she is downstairs now. Papa is in his study – Harry can smell his morning tea from here. Winky is baking her bread down in the kitchen, and the pungent smell of yeast wafting through makes Harry wrinkle his nose in displeasure. The window is open, and though the sun is out and bright already – Harry can feel the warmth on his face – there is wetness on the air. It will rain soon. There is something else, something spicy and warm nearby. Ginger tea on the bedside table. Mamma makes it whenever someone has an upset stomach.

He keeps his eyes closed. He is at home, safe in his bed, with his family watching over him and protecting him. He wants to sleep again, but his body hurts from lying here for so long. The sharp, striking pain is gone, leaving nothing but soreness behind, heavy in his bones. He feels as if he has been run over by a carriage. He is tired but wants to stand and stretch the discomfort from his legs. He wants to leave the bed, but he also wants to sleep again for days. He is not ready for this day. Yes, he has survived – there were times when he was not sure he would, but he is still alive. He is better. He is himself again. Or is he? He is something else now, something he does not want to face.

He had been warned about the heats, that they would come one day, that it was inevitable _. That’s what you are. A male Omega_ , Bertrand’s voice reminds him. _You don’t have a choice. It is nature. You can do nothing about it._ Even Dr Granger said it, every time Harry came in for his annual medical inspection. He said Harry would change soon. _Very_ soon. Although he was always more reassuring about it than Bertrand, speaking in a soft voice and telling Harry not to be afraid. But time went by and Harry grew up and still nothing happened, still there was no change, no heats. Still Harry remained who he was. And so much time passed that he started wondering if perhaps everyone was mistaken. Perhaps he was not an Omega after all, perhaps he was not an _anomaly_ , as Bertrand put it. Perhaps he would always remain himself and never change, and he would never have to do any of those awful things Bertrand talked about. So much time passed that Harry thought he was safe, that there would be no _predators_ coming for him.

But today, Harry is an Omega. He cannot deny it now, there is no hiding from it. Before today, Harry knew who he was. He was Harry Weasley, son of Arthur and Molly Weasley. It never mattered who gave birth to him, where he was before or with whom. He was always theirs. He belonged at the Burrow, in the little room at the top of the tower. He belonged in the field across the river, under the beechwood tree with his books. But now he is not Harry Weasley anymore. He is just an Omega. And that is all everyone will think of him from now on, that is all everyone will see when they look at him. If it was not already all they could see.

This is all Mr Snape’s fault. Harry was happy before he arrived.

He thinks about the man, all the way across the fields and the moors, in that large, empty house. Oh, how satisfied with himself he must be, to have finally accomplished what he was aiming for from the beginning. From that first night at the ball, from the moment he said those awful words, perfectly aware that Harry would overhear, Mr Snape has wanted nothing more than to humiliate him, to show him his rightful place. He would not allow an Omega to think and speak and be content. Harry does not know _how_ , but he did this on purpose. _He_ caused Harry’s heat on purpose, somehow. There can be no other way. Harry is convinced of this. It seems _exactly_ the sort of thing Mr Snape would do.

“Could I have some of that tea?” he mumbles slowly, fighting off the last persistent morsels of sleep. He desperately wants to drink something, to rid his mouth of that horrible taste.

There is the sharp sound of Ginny shutting the book she has been reading. Harry opens his eyes in time to see her leaving the armchair and coming to sit on his bed. She is still wearing her nightdress, and her hair is messy, but although she looks tired, she smiles softly at him.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, adjusting the pillows behind him as he struggles to sit up, before handing him the cup at last.

The tea smells delicious. Harry breathes the steam in deeply before taking a long, glorious sip. “Tired,” he says, his voice rough. “And… not quite myself.”

Ginny nods. She is quiet for a time, as if unsure what to say. “The doctor said that the medicine will wear off soon and that you might be sore afterwards. He said it will take a few days before you start feeling better. Because you’ve… changed now.” She blushes, smoothing the sheets on the side of the mattress in a nervous gesture.

 _You’ve changed now._ Harry scoffs very softly, wondering how she can still find it in herself to be embarrassed after caring for him for days, after bathing him and putting cold cloths on his swollen throat and cleaning the _discharge_ from his thighs… Either because he is tired and somewhat irritable, or because he is simply so relieved that this terrible ordeal is over, he is not in the least embarrassed or mortified. Not at the moment – maybe it will come later. He never thought he would see things this way. The idea of being _in heat_ – the fact that he can even _think_ the word now is in itself astounding – had always terrified him. But perhaps it was the waiting that made it worse, the not knowing, the shadow of it hovering over him constantly. For years Harry had been living under the threat of it, uncertain when it was going to strike, or if it even _was_ going to, but now that it has happened, the threat is gone. The shadow is gone. He can stop dreading it. He feels tired and sore and sulky, but strangely… at peace.

“What day is today?” he finally asks, before taking another long sip of tea, letting the spicy taste of it soothe his throat.

“Wednesday,” Ginny reveals with a weak smile. “You were… ill for five days.”

“I was _ill_.” Harry scoffs at the word. “You can call it what it is,” he adds perhaps a bit coldly. “I assure you I am past humiliation by now.”

Ginny shakes her head and throws him a hesitant glance. “It _did_ look to me as if you were ill,” she says softly. “It was not what I expected–”

“Well, it was not what I expected either,” he snaps.

She frowns at him. “Mamma was very worried,” she says.

He feels defensive all of a sudden, as if she is blaming him for it. “It was not my intention to–”

“I _know_ , Harry. I _know_ ,” she insists. “It wasn’t your fault. We _all_ know that. It’s over now.”

He looks down at his tea, at the steam that still hovers over the surface. He feels like crying all of a sudden, like everything about him is exposed and raw. He feels like crying or like shouting. He is upset at Ginny for being embarrassed, and he is upset at himself for being upset with her. He sighs heavily.

“I can smell _everything_ ,” he reveals after a time, more softly now.

“Everything?”

He nods. “Winky fed Hedwig some ham this morning. And you’ve been sleeping in Bill’s old bedroom. I can smell it on your dress.” Ginny stares at him for a time, her eyes wide. “The sheets haven’t been changed in a while. It’s musty,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

“It’s closer to yours,” she explains. “Bill’s room. I wanted to be there if Mamma needed me… That’s incredible. You can really smell that?”

Harry takes another long sip and nods. “Do you remember Bertrand Philbert?”

“Oh, yes! Bertie,” she says, grinning. “Papa chased him from the house. I never knew why.”

“He told me that Omegas were only good for breeding.” Harry stops abruptly. He didn’t mean to say it like that, but it just came out. 

Ginny blushes bright red. “Oh.”

“That’s what he _said_ ,” he insists, in an effort to explain his clumsiness. “And that’s why Papa chased him away… But before that, he told me that my sense of smell would heighten when I had my first– when I came of age. To better protect myself from predators, I believe he said.” Harry shrugs. “I never thought it would be quite like this.”

“Predators?” Ginny repeats.

Harry grimaces. “Alphas.”

“Cormac came by!” she says suddenly, as if she just remembered. “Did you notice?”

Harry nearly drops his tea. “ _What?_ ” he asks in a shrill tone that reminds him of his mother’s. “ _Here?_ ”

“Not _here_. He was outside,” she explains quickly. “I don’t know how he knew, but… he knew that you… that you were… _ill_. It was on the first day, late in the afternoon. I think perhaps he was in town when the carriage went by and he… and he smelled you…” She pauses, blushing again. “Hagrid caught him lurking in the yard.”

“ _Lurking_ in the yard?” Harry can only gape at her for a long moment, unable to believe the nerve of Cormac. “ _What_ was he hoping would happen?” he hisses furiously.

Surprisingly, Ginny laughs. “I don’t know, but I wish you could have seen it. Hagrid chased him away with an axe.”

“With an _axe_?”

“He was just chopping wood. Papa was even more furious when he found out, but Mamma convinced him not to go see Mr McLaggen because then everyone would know that you–”

“Everyone will know regardless,” Harry says dryly. “They must know already. If you think Cormac is kind enough not to tell, you are even more gullible than I thought. I am never leaving this house again,” he announces darkly before drinking the rest of the burning tea, which has done nothing to rid him of the awful taste that lingers in his mouth.

“Harry… Please don’t be–”

“I want to sleep now,” he declares moodily, handing her the empty cup, already slipping deeper under his covers. He settles as comfortably as he can, turning his back to her, cringing at the soreness that assails him with every slight movement.

Ginny sighs softly. He can smell her disappointment, both at his reaction and at her own inability to console him. Eventually, she stands from the bed, and he listens to her departing footsteps, eager to be left on his own. She is just about to climb down the stairs, however, when Mr Weasley arrives. Harry can smell the warm bread he is carrying, along with some of the raspberry preserves he likes.

“He’s in a foul mood,” Ginny says dryly before disappearing down the stairs.

Harry scoffs into his blankets, staring at the wall angrily as his father approaches. The smell of the bread is delicious, and his stomach growls, but Harry stubbornly lies there, unmoving. If only he could sleep again. If only he could sleep and wake up to find the world as it was before.

The bed dips beside him as his father takes Ginny’s vacated place and sets the plate of bread on the table. A gentle hand touches Harry’s head tentatively, then more surely, pushing the hair away from his face.

“I brought you some breakfast.”

Somehow, even his soothing voice does not manage to ease Harry’s anger. Suddenly, he wants to cry again, or flinch away from the touch. He buries his face deeper into the blankets to hide it. He cannot understand any of what he is feeling. He wants to shout at his father, but he also wants his father to hold him tight, like he did when Harry was little. But he cannot ask that anymore. He is not a child any longer, that much is clear. He is meant to go out into the world as an adult now, as a _prey_ …

“You must eat, Harry,” his father says again.

“I don’t want it,” Harry mumbles, breathing in deeply to try and fight the tears.

“Would you like porridge instead? I can–”

“I don’t want to be like this,” Harry mumbles. “I want to go back… before…”

“Harry…” Mr Weasley says, stroking his hair. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change unless you let it.”

Harry says nothing in response, tries to ignore him because if he starts crying, he will never be able to stop. He is tired and sad and furious all at once. He has a headache, and his whole body hurts. He shuts his eyes, presses his face into the bedsheets and the familiar, soothing smells, trying to hide from the overwhelming array of scents, begging for sleep to carry him away again.

“Everything will be fine,” his father says gently before pressing a kiss to his temple. “I promise you.”

A few days pass before Harry is himself again – or as close to his old self as he believes it is possible for him to be – and he finally decides it is time now to leave his bedroom.

It seems inconceivable that the world outside has remained the same, even a little disconcerting, and he cannot help feeling somewhat bitter about it. His own world has deeply changed, and yet life is still what it was before. The view from his window is the same, peaceful and indifferent to his troubles and his new fears, and he finds himself looking out at the landscape with contempt. He has missed his field and his tree, however, and as he leaves his bed on Saturday morning, he has every intention to spend the day out in the sun, if only so he can have a little peace. The old armchair by his bed has been occupied nearly constantly for a week, and Harry has barely had any time to himself, always under the watch of his sister or his mother or Hermione. More than anything, he longs to be alone with his thoughts, and with the new Bathilda Bagshot book Hermione brought him yesterday. He has decided never to read anything by Lockhart again, and he longs for the familiarity, the predictability, and the uneventfulness of Bagshot’s novels.

He stands in front of the mirror for a long time, examining his reflection, the familiar traits of his face, the lines of his body. He looks pale, even against the white of his nightshirt, and there are dark circles under his eyes. His hair looks even messier, even more ridiculous than usual, having been pressed into a pillow for days, and his mother will surely remark on it, but it does not matter so much to him. He looks thinner as well, and his mother _already_ has remarked on that yesterday, clucking her tongue and urging him to finish up every last bite of the chicken stew Winky made especially for him. Apart from that, he looks like his old self, exactly as he did last week, before things took a turn for the worse. One would never know, just with a glimpse his way, that he is not the same. But Harry knows. He can _feel_ it. He is himself again, but he is not. He will never _truly_ be himself again, no matter how many times his father tries to convince him that nothing has changed. And others will know this as well. _Alphas_ will know this.

After three days, at least Harry seems to have grown used to the heightened sense of smell, but he fears this new… _skill_ is only manageable now because he is home, surrounded by the people he knows and the things he is accustomed to. He fears it does not bother him now because there is nothing unusual in the vicinity, nothing threatening or alerting in any way. Or perhaps it is only because all traces of the heat have now left him. It is like a creature lying dormant inside of him, something he believes he might be able to ignore but he is still uncertain of its intentions – it might strike at any moment. What will happen the next time he is confronted with an Alpha, or worse still, with Mr Snape? What if he goes into heat every time? Dr Granger smiled gently when Harry voiced this fear a few days ago and assured him that this is not how heats work, that it will not happen again for at least three months. But Harry is dubious. It was very much abnormal for him to have his first heat so late, who can say with certainty that the next ones will be normal and regular?

At The Burrow, life has returned to normal. As Harry makes his way down the stairs with Hedwig in tow, the sound of the pianoforte drifts through the walls as Ginny plays her favourite song, and there is chatter coming from the kitchen, where it seems Winky is telling Harry’s mother a funny story that happened to a neighbour. He finds his father in the study as usual but hesitates on the doorstep. He had meant to ask for money for the post, but sudden fear twists his guts at the thought that getting the post implies walking into town. It has been over a week since Harry has been to Ollivander’s shop – he has never let so much time pass between visits – and no doubt the old man will comment on it. And no doubt he already knows _why_ Harry has been absent. He can already imagine the look on the shop owner’s face, hungry for gossip like a wolf for fresh blood.

He had forgotten. Already, Harry had forgotten what walking into town means now.

“Ah, Harry, my boy,” Mr Weasley says upon noticing him. “Feeling better today, are you?”

“Yes,” Harry says shortly, his throat tight. He hesitates for a moment then turns on his heels and walks away. If he has no money to pay for the post, he cannot possibly go into town, and he should leave before his father realises what he was about to ask and offers it to him.

Instead, he crosses the parlour, walking straight past Ginny without even a word or a look in her direction, and out through the side door. There, he sits on the porch for a time, waiting for the breakfast bell. The morning air is pleasant and sweet after being confined indoors for so long, but the sun hurts Harry’s eyes. He feels better, yes, but the faint traces of a headache are there still, lingering and ready to resurface.

There is a swan on the river this morning, swimming there amongst the ducks near the footbridge. Its feathers are so white, and it glides on the water, unimpressed with its surroundings, quiet and poised amidst its noisy cousins, with its graceful neck raised high. Harry likes the swans. They come and go, never staying for very long – they probably find the ducks too troublesome – and they usually come in pairs, but this one is alone. Watching it makes Harry’s heart tighten somehow. Has it lost its mate?

“Are you going into town later?” Ginny asks suddenly, coming out behind him.

Harry throws her a distracted glance. He had heard the music stop and smelled her approaching. He wonders if he will ever be startled or caught unaware ever again. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I can go with you, if you want.”

When he does not answer, she sits next to him and the whiteness of her dress, just as bright as the swan’s plumage, makes his eyes water. “Or I could go for you,” she offers.

He shrugs, his eyes finding the swan again. It is now dipping its head into the water, looking for food.

Ginny gasps, finally noticing the bird. “Oh, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She is silent for a moment, and when he does not reply, continues, “They look so strange when they are little. All grey and dishevelled. And their necks are short. They are not adorable like the ducklings. But when they grow up, they are so graceful. They are not as common as ducks or geese, but in my opinion, this only makes them–”

“Stop it,” Harry says quietly, knowing very well what she is trying to say to him with this lecture, and he is very much tempted to snap at her. Perhaps she has been spending too much time with Hermione while he was ill. The last thing he wants is to hear her comparing him to a bird, however graceful he finds it. Harry is anything but graceful. He forces the words to be calm. “I don’t want to hear it. I just want to be alone.”

His anger is still there, lingering just like the headache, ready to strike, and he is grateful that the breakfast bell rings at this moment, so she does not have time to insist or try to comfort him, and he does not let his bad temper out on her. He feels like prey, he realises, prepared to defend himself or to bolt at any sign of an attack, no matter how small. Everything seems a treat to him, every small remark, every glance _. You may feel irritable at first_ , Dr Granger warned on his last visit, before assuring him that his feelings will return to normal soon enough. Not soon enough, Harry thinks.

A few days ago, while Harry was still resting, a note was delivered, announcing that Mr Longbottom would be giving a ball on the first Monday of September – in a little more than a week’s time. It is all Mrs Weasley can talk about this morning at the table, and Harry is infinitely grateful for it, because for the first time in days, the attention is not entirely on him. In fact, the only sign that something is different is that Winky serves the pound cake early, setting it directly in front of Harry on the table and ruffling his hair affectionately before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“I am _so_ looking forward to it. I think it will be a very grand ball indeed!” Harry’s mother announces as she pours herself some tea. “But I do hope they will think to make the house a little bit more presentable.”

“Mamma,” Ginny reproaches softly. “I think the house is beautiful as it is.”

“Oh, it is, Ginny dear. It is very beautiful. But I think it lacks in homeliness, and you cannot deny it. A house is not a home unless it looks like people are living there, and as beautiful as the Longbottom Manor is, it seems only temporarily inhabited, ready to be vacated at once on the whims of its occupants.”

“I agree,” Harry declares. “As welcoming as is Mr Longbottom’s nature, the same cannot be said of his house. I found very little I liked in it other than the parlour. Even the library was lacking.” _To say nothing of the company_ , he wants to add, but does not.

“It was his father’s house,” Ginny insists. “He simply did not have time yet to make it his own.”

Mrs Weasley makes a distressed noise as she spreads jam on her bread almost savagely. “I do hope he is not the sort of man to leave everything for later. Oh, laziness is amongst the very worse traits somebody can possess, and I am afraid a life of comfortable leisure can weaken a man’s reason considerably. Mr Longbottom is amiable enough indeed, but he is so mild-mannered I cannot help fearing he may never act on anything unless prompted to.”

“He did promise to give a ball and is now acting on it,” Ginny provides. “That should be reassurance enough, Mamma.”

Mrs Weasley shakes her head before returning to her previous concern. “I daresay I am quite astonished that Miss Parkinson has not yet taken it upon herself to see to the house yet. One would think she would have filled it with expensive furniture from Paris. She is so fondly speaking of it.”

“You must forgive her, Mamma,” Harry says darkly. “She is too busy speaking ill of others to take care of any of that.”

“Harry!” Ginny gasps, and when he lifts his head, he finds his whole family staring at him in surprise. Even his father is peering over his paper.

“It’s true,” Harry says tells his sister grimly, piling food onto his plate. “Oh, she always chooses her words carefully when around you, of course. Perhaps she even respects you. But make no mistake, when you weren’t present, when you were upstairs resting and I was alone with her and her friends, she did not show me any of that kindness you swear by.” He scoffs, stabbing an egg with his fork. “You should have heard her, asking me if I had been educated. She could barely keep the sneer from her face.”

“I’m sure she meant nothing by it,” Ginny says sharply. “You always see the worse in people.”

“And you find too much comfort in your delusions.”

Ginny frowns at him across the table. “Why are you being so despicable today?”

“Why are you always being so stupid?”

“Enough,” their father says, with warning to his tone. “You will be respectful to each other at this table.”

“May I be excused?” Harry asks moodily.

“You may not,” Mr Weasley snaps. “Finish your breakfast.”

“Oh, I think a ball will all do us some good,” Mrs Weasley declares after a moment with a nervous laugh. “Definitely, yes. Especially after we missed the mayor’s. Not that it was your fault, Harry. In fact, I was quite happy not going. I can just imagine the satisfied look on Mrs McLaggen’s face. Oh, she has wanted to give a ball for so long, and to invite Mr Longbottom too! And the whole thing was a common affair, very common, Mrs Bones told me, nothing to praise in any way. But this one, we _cannot_ miss. I believe we should get you a new dress, Ginny. What do you think? And maybe a new waistcoat for you, Harry, sweetheart. Would you like that?”

“I won’t be going,” Harry declares. “I will stay home.”

Mr Weasley clears his throat. “You are going to this ball, Harry,” he says, folding his paper and putting it aside. “There will be no discussing it.”

Harry bites his lip hard, doing everything in his power to keep quiet. The breath is shaking out of him in anger and tears are welling up behind his eyes. He is filled with the overwhelming urge to break something.

“We could go to that little shop in Hitchin, the one with the beautiful muslin,” his mother continues.

Harry does not pay attention to anything anybody says after this. Throat burning, he does not dare speak, because he fears he might cry if he tries to. And he keeps his eyes on his plate, never looking at his father, because he will _certainly_ cry if he does. He was starving only a moment ago, but now everything he puts into his mouth is tasteless. And so, he sets his fork down and stares at his plate furiously until everyone else has finished eating and he is allowed to leave the table at last. He has every intention to run upstairs and slip back into bed, all thoughts of his field and his tree forgotten. He does not feel like lying in the sun today, not when his mind is filled with shadows.

“Harry, I was thinking we might go for a little walk, you and I,” his father says just as Harry is about to run upstairs. “Come now,” he adds more firmly.

Anger burning in his chest, Harry follows him out of the house and down the front porch into the bright sunlight. His father does not head for the road to the village however, he walks towards the river, following it leisurely in the opposite direction. The swan is nowhere to be seen, and Harry feels strangely disappointed.

“I don’t want to go to that ball,” he blurts out. “You can’t force me.”

Mr Weasley shakes his head, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You _have_ to. That is final.”

“How can you say that?” Harry very nearly shouts, anger and panic pulsing through him. “Don’t you understand?”

“Calm down, Harry.”

“How can I _ever_ go out in public again?”

“Harry, calm down,” his father says loudly. “Don’t make me say it again.”

Harry falls silent, his eyes tearing up, breath stuttering in and out of his throat. There’s a large duck on the river, swimming alongside them, hoping for food, perhaps. “I can’t go to that ball,” he says more softly, pleadingly, fighting tears. “Please don’t make me go, Papa. Everyone will know… They will stare at me and talk behind my–”

“What if they do?” his father interrupts. He stops walking and turns to stare away from the river, at a grove in the trees, through which it is possible to see the wide expanse of the moors beyond. The sunlight is filtering through this morning in a misty, dreamlike way. There is a note of harshness to Mr Weasley’s voice, but his face is soft. “What if they stare? And what if they talk? They have been staring and talking for years, Harry. They have been from the day your mother and I took you in. This is a small town, and people have nothing to talk about, and so they pry in other people’s business, and so they gossip among themselves. It has been so from the day they laid the first stone of the first house in this town, and it will not stop even if you hide in your room for the next twenty years.”

“This is not making me feel any better,” Harry mumbles.

His father sighs heavily, still staring at the moors through the sunlit trees, and when he speaks again, his voice is so gentle it is almost completely drowned out by the birds and the cicadas. “I know you might not want to hear this, Harry, but you are not a child anymore–”

“I know that!” Harry hisses, feeling his face flush with anger, and also with shame at reacting in such a foolish way. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I meant what I said to you the other day,” his father declares sharply, finally turning to stare at him with narrowed eyes. “Nothing will change unless you let it. You are still the same, Harry, and you know it. But this boy, just now, at breakfast, I don’t know this boy. That was not you. You are not rude and hostile. And you will _not_ talk to your sister that way ever again. I know you are afraid, but you cannot be this way. No one is coming to hurt you. Do you think so poorly of us that you believe we won’t protect you?”

Harry shakes his head, his heart suddenly incredibly heavy. He wants to apologise, to explain, to cry. He wants to tell his father everything about how he is feeling, he wants to try to voice this fear that is not even fear but absolute dread, but he cannot find the words. He looks at his father, speechless, his eyes full of tears.

Mr Weasley looks back at him silently for a time, his gaze softened. “Perhaps it’s my fault,” he says after a moment, regrettably. “I shouldn’t have coddled you so much. It was appropriate when you were a child, considering what you went through. But even when you grew up, I could never quite bring myself to treat you like your brothers. Your mother always said I was too soft with you, too gentle. Perhaps she was right.”

“What are you saying?”

“I will have none of this, Harry,” his father says firmly, turning now to stare directly at him. “I will not have you afraid of the world! I will not have you hiding away, ashamed of who you are. You are not a child, but you are still my boy. And you are different, yes, but not because of this Omega nonsense, but because your mother and I, we chose you. We took you in because you needed us, and we thought you deserved better than what you had, and we wanted you to be a part of our lives and our family. We chose you, and we will keep choosing you regardless of what people think or say. So, let them all talk if they want to, and let the stare. And perhaps one day some idiot in this town will stare long enough and realise how strong and intelligent and handsome you are and ask me for your hand. What I am saying is, don’t you dare try to hide, or I will drag you out myself.”

Harry stares down at his feet, suddenly ashamed. Has he been ungrateful? Has his fear made him forget that he is not completely alone in this world anymore, that he has his family here to keep him safe and defend him? Papa is right, of course. Harry cannot hide. Not only because it will change nothing in the town gossip – if anything, it might just make it worse – but also because this is exactly what Mr Snape wants. For him to hide in his shame. And Harry simply cannot let him have his way once more. No, he cannot.

Despite all this, the thought of venturing out into town, or attending a ball now is so unbearable it sends shivers of fear down his spine. What will people whisper behind his back? What crude words will cross their minds? What has Cormac told them?

His father keeps walking, and Harry follows silently, not as angry now as he was before, but still quite speechless.

“This is not the time for childish whims anymore, Harry,” Mr Weasley continues, more seriously now. “You and I have matters to discuss. I have not told you of this before, because I wanted to be better informed before I did. And then you were ill, so it had to wait. But it cannot be avoided anymore.”

“What matters?” Harry asks, and of course his father senses the dread in his words, because he smiles back at him reassuringly.

“Nothing you should be fearful of, my boy. There have simply been… unexpected news.”

Harry is very much intrigued now. “Regarding what?”

Mr Weasley clears his throat deeply before he speaks. “A month or so ago, Dr Granger showed me an advertisement in _The Morning Herald_ , claiming he had seen the same one the week before, and also in _The Times_ and _The Evening Mail_. It was put there by a notary from London in search of a young boy who had disappeared some fifteen years ago and would now be twenty years old. There was a physical description and vague details about his past and the circumstances of his disappearance. He was described as a dark-haired, green-eyed Omega.”

Harry’s heart beats faster and faster with each new sentence out of his father’s mouth. He can only stare at the man fearfully, hopefully.

“After exchanging letters with this notary, Dr Granger and I have concluded that the missing young man he has been searching for is you, Harry. Dr Granger has met with him on his last visit to London, and I have extended an invitation for him to come and meet you. He wishes to talk to you regarding your parents’ estate,” he adds, surely noting the look of apprehension on Harry’s face.

Harry stops walking, staring down at the water. They are approaching the part where the river becomes shallow and he can see the mossy rocks under the surface. “My parents?” he asks softly, disbelievingly. “That man… he knows who they are?”

“He does,” Papa’s voice replies, though it sounds so terribly far away to Harry’s ears. “He knows who they _were_.”

Harry nods his head. He knew they had died. Deep down, he always knew that, though he could never remember it. But he remembers feeling safe in his mother’s arms, and he knows she would never have left him if she had a choice. Or maybe he does not _know_ any of this and only wants to believe it.

“They had… an estate? I always thought…” Harry mumbles, still staring at the rocks through the water. “I always thought they were just… I don’t know what I thought.”

Mr Weasley takes one of Harry’s hands in both of his, holding it reassuringly. “Your name,” he says softly, “is Harry Potter. Your father was Lord James Potter of Godric’s Hollow, in Cornwall.”

“Potter,” Harry says softly. He feels like it should sound familiar, like it should enlighten everything. It should be like coming home after a long, arduous journey, but it feels foreign on his tongue. A word like any other. “I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember Cornwall or… my father. I remember my mother, sometimes. I dream of her, I think. That notary, how does he know? How can he be certain it’s me? It must be a mistake. I think I would remember.”

“In exchanging letters, he shared what he knew of your past, and I shared what I knew from what you had told me. It all fit together. He asked me if you had any scars from when you were a child, from before we took you in. I told him you had a mark on your forehead, near your hairline, sort of jagged and quite deep. The advertisement made no mention of it, and that’s how he knew without a doubt you were the one. He claimed you fell down a flight of stairs as a child. He wrote that you were three years old when your parents died, and that he, himself, entrusted you to the care of your mother’s sister and her husband, in Surrey. He wrote that two years ago, shortly before you were to turn eighteen, he visited your aunt and uncle in hopes of speaking to you of your inheritance. And that is when he found they had… disposed of you years ago.”

“I remember them,” Harry reveals, turning to his father. Because _this_ is his father, this man here, not some Lord whose face he cannot even remember. “And I remember the man who came and took me away. Why did they let him take me away? Why did they want me gone?”

“I don’t know, Harry.” Mr Weasley says this softly, as if he himself is curious to know more, but from the way he averts his eyes and stares at the trees again, Harry has the strong impression that he is hiding something.

Later that day, as originally planned, Harry leaves the house and finds refuge in his field for the first time in well over a week. He has brought with him the new Bagshot book and some leftover bread from breakfast in case he gets hungry, but after attempting to read the first page at least ten times, he shuts the book and sets it aside. He leans his back against the trunk of the tree, wraps his arms around his knees and stares at the long grass dancing in the wind.

“Harry Potter,” he says slowly.

How strange it is to pronounce, and how strange to hear. And yet, this is him, this half familiar, half foreign sequence of syllables.

He should be rejoiced by such news. He should be ecstatic, perhaps, to learn he is the heir of some grand estate, the son of a Lord, when all his life he has been convinced his parents were common, nameless people who most probably died or had to give him away because they were too poor to feed him. For a long time, he thought he only had a mother, because he has memories of her, real recollections. He imagined is father was perhaps a soldier, or a sailor lost at sea, who had died while his mother was pregnant with him, and she lived alone in a small house, full of grief at the loss of her beloved. She had fallen sick, and Harry had been taken away and ended up with the blonde lady and the large man – his aunt and uncle, he now knows.

Yes, he should be relieved by such news. He should be happy, but Harry only feels numb, detached. As if this is happening to someone else and he has just been told the story. If it was happening to someone else, he would find it incredibly interesting and, oddly enough, he might even be envious. But instead there is this numbness. And behind this numbness, there is a sort of regret. No, not regret. Rather, a sort of aggravation. _Why_ did it have to happen to _him_? Why could this Lord Potter not have been someone else’s father instead? Why did this have to happen _now_?

Harry thought he could get back to himself, in time. Is it possible anymore?

He was Harry Weasley. And then he was an Omega. But who is he _now_?

The man arrives in Hogsmeade two days later, and Hagrid is sent to fetch him in early afternoon. When he exits the carriage, he is revealed as quite short, with a paunch and a balding spot he tries to hide with what is left of his thin, brownish hair. He has a round face, a sharp, pointy nose, and small, beady eyes, and when he smiles at the Weasleys, who are standing outside to greet him, the sharpness of his front teeth reminds Harry of a small rodent.

“Mr Pettigrew,” Harry’s father greets, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “How kind of you to accept our invitation.”

The small man lets out a sort of wheezy, snorty laugh, moving his suitcase from his right hand to his left before launching into a hearty handshake. “Oh, please, please, um… the kindness is all yours, Mr Weasley,” he says in a raspy voice before letting out another loud snort.

Harry and Ginny exchange a glance, both trying not to laugh.

Mr Pettigrew is dressed all in black, in an expensive suit that looks to be quite old and sort of dusty and does not fit him very well, as if it once belonged to someone else and he has not bothered taking it to a tailor. He peers at them all one by one as they are introduced, and then lets out a choked gasp, rushing forward and fetching a small monocle from his pocket, through which he examines Harry quite thoroughly.

“My goodness, oh, yes, yes, you are Lord Potter’s son, there is no doubt about it, absolutely no doubt!” he exclaims all in one breath, still staring at Harry, his right eye immense and watery behind the foggy lens. “Oh, you look so much like your father! So much, yes, indeed! But oh… um… you have your mother’s eyes. Yes, Lady Potter’s eyes, as I live and breathe! I thought I would never find you!” he adds breathlessly, finally stuffing the monocle back into his pocket. “I had all but given up hope! And then, oh! I could hardly believe it!”

Unsure how to respond to all of this, or how to act with such a strange and ridiculous man, Harry bows his head slightly. “Pleased to meet you. And thank you for coming.”

“Please, come inside, Mr Pettigrew. Hagrid will take your suitcase up to your room,” Mr Weasley announces. “I thought we might settle in my study before dinner. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh yes, that would be lovely, yes indeed,” Mr Pettigrew says with a wheeze of excitement and this time Harry catches Ginny smiling widely, though she manages to make it look like a polite gesture.

As they head towards the study, Mr Pettigrew peers attentively at his surroundings, examining the furniture in the hall and the parlour, admiring the drapes and the rugs and the woodwork with his beady little eyes. “Such an… um… unusual home you have,” he remarks. “I find it very grand, oh yes, very grand indeed.”

Once they are settled in the study, Poppy comes in with some tea and biscuits, and Mr Pettigrew seems quite admirative of the kettle and the porcelain. As he takes the cup that is handed to him, Harry notices how unusually long his fingernails are, and he represses a shiver. The man makes him quite uneasy, and he decides he would not like to be alone with him. He is relieved, however, that Mr Pettigrew is a Beta. When informed of the coming visitor, he had feared it would be an Alpha, but Mr Pettigrew is harmless, though thoroughly unpleasant. He has a strange smell Harry is incapable to ignore, like something dusty or musty that has been left at the bottom of a drawer for too long. Maybe it is just his old suit.

“You knew my parents,” Harry says at last. Despite himself, he is curious to know more, and also eager for this discussion – and this visit – to be over.

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed,” Mr Pettigrew gasps before nodding so enthusiastically the cup he is holding trembles in its saucer. “Yes, your father, Lord Potter, God bless his soul, hired me to keep his books when his father passed and he, himself, inherited the titles. It was years ago, yes, when… um… when I practiced in Cornwall still. I work in London now, though I still have clients in many counties,” he explains proudly. “My old master was… um… the keeper of the Potters’ estate before me. I was very honoured, yes, very honoured indeed. And how heartbroken I was at their passing.”

“How exactly did they die?” Harry’s father asks.

“Oh, it was most unfortunate, oh yes, indeed. A carriage accident, I am afraid. In a… um… a bad storm, the carriage was knocked over as it passed on a bridge. A true tragedy, oh yes, it was.”

“It was _you_ who brought me to my aunt and uncle,” Harry adds. It is not a question, and he realises that perhaps he has said this a bit coldly, for his father raises an eyebrow at him in warning.

Mr Pettigrew shakes his head regrettably before taking a long, noisy sip of his tea. “It was me, oh, yes, it was. Unfortunately. I believed they were… um… respectable people at the time. I had heard they were. A pleasant house, a good reputation. The only family you had left, they were. It was appropriate, I thought. It was… um… regulations, yes. How shocked I was to find out they barely had you two years. Oh, how difficult it was for me to find you. I hardly thought it was possible, oh, yes. But I suppose I am…” he trails off and laughs wheezily, “a hard-headed man… oh yes. Stubborn, my old master would say. You see, Mr Potter–”

“Weasley,” Harry corrects.

“Yes, Mr Weasley, yes. Your… um… aunt and uncle explained to me that they had sent you away to be educated in London and that you lived with… um… distant relatives there. They seemed very nervous, and oh, yes, very rude people they were. Rude, indeed. I could tell they were… um… lying. They refused to provide me with information regarding this, um… family that they claimed to have confided you to. When I mentioned the estate, they… um… they then said that you… um… had died of a fever as a child. Very, very suspicious, indeed, but I am not so easily fooled. I then talked to the servants, you see. No one ever thinks of asking them, but they know everything, and I could tell with such… um… unpleasant masters, they might be willing to talk. It was the housekeeper who told me what had happened, that those terrible, oh yes, very terrible people indeed had simply… um… given you away. Now, this is when my task became truly…um… arduous, oh yes, indeed. Yes… indeed.”

Mr Pettigrew then drains the last of his tea quite noisily and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his old suit. He fumbles through his pocket, and this time takes out not the monocle, but a small comb, which he runs swiftly through his hair before patting his head carefully, as if to ensure his baldness is still properly covered.

“That is when you thought to use the papers then?” Mr Weasley asks.

“Um… yes, yes, indeed. It may seem to you as quite desperate but, um… I could think of no other way. Oh, but I had a terrible, oh yes, a terrible time of it. Why, I must have met… um… every dark-haired and green-eyed Omega in London. Some were not even dark-haired or green-eyed. Goodness, some were not even Omegas. Can you believe, um… the nerve of people? One of them, oh, one of them was, um… well past forty years old, to be sure!” he reveals with a snort. “Though he tried to convince me he was nineteen. Pitiful, oh yes, indeed. Such a long and tedious affair, oh, yes... Indeed.”

Harry has to repress a sigh. Mr Pettigrew is thoroughly exhausting to listen to. “The man who took me away, the one my aunt and uncle gave me to, do you know who he is?”

Mr Pettigrew laughs nervously at the question, and his beady little eyes shoot briefly to Mr Weasley before he answers. “I am afraid not. There is really, um… no way to know. But oh, how furious your father would be, oh yes, indeed. And how devastated your mother. To know that you had… um… been abandoned so. But how fortunate, oh yes, indeed, how fortunate that you would happen to find this town and this family. How relieved I am, oh, you cannot possibly imagine. There is still some good in the world, oh yes, there is. I had thought the worst, you see! I had thought you would have ended up in one of the–”

“There is a house, you mentioned?” Harry’s father says suddenly. “In Cornwall?”

Mr Pettigrew gasps in sudden awe, as if he were just now being informed of this. “Oh yes, yes, indeed! Godric’s Hollow! A most wondrous place if I have ever seen one. Why, it dates all the way back to the 14th century, if you would believe it! Formerly the home of the Peverell family, though I am afraid none of them now remain. It passed down to the Potters through marriage and the property was expanded in 1582. Built entirely out of local limestones, with decorative gables,” Mr Pettigrew describes, as if reciting lines out of a book. “The great hall window, oh, yes!” he exclaims so suddenly Harry is nearly startled. “So beautiful! It takes up a whole wall, with no less than 600 panes of glass! Oh, the way the morning light comes through! And the grand fireplace too, ornate with such beautiful sculptures! The property is immense, with a stunning garden and some orchard trees! You must see it for yourself, Mr Po– Mr Weasley! Oh, you must!”

“But it isn’t really mine, is it?” Harry says when Mr Pettigrew finally stops to catch his breath. “Omegas do not inherit estates. I don’t see what difference it makes, having found me.”

Mr Pettigrew smiles at this, but although it should be a reassuring expression, on his face it only looks troubling. “As it turns out, Mr Weasley, given that your father has… um… no other son, nor any other heir, no one but _you_ can inherit his estate. There is… um… however, one condition.”

“That I must marry, I suppose,” Harry finishes for him. “As I said, Omegas never inherit. Whoever I marry will inherit. So, what does it matter in the end? Because I will never marry.”

“Harry–” his father begins.

“I believe you came all this way for nothing, Mr Pettigrew.”

Mr Pettigrew stares at him incredulously for a time. “Oh, my dear Mr Weasley,” he gasps out, “a young man such as yourself, um… surely you have… um… I imagine you must have countless suitors.”

Harry only scoffs softly. The compliment is entirely lost on him coming from such a man.

“And if it were revealed to the public,” the notary continues eagerly, “that um… that you are Lord Potter’s long-lost son, my goodness, I am certain it would, um… not take long for someone to come forward and–”

“No,” Harry’s father says abruptly. “No, we don’t wish it to be known. I assume you will respect this and be discreet, Mr Pettigrew.”

Mr Pettigrew gasps so deeply he nearly chokes. “Oh, goodness, of course, I will. Oh yes, indeed. If anyone were to ask, my quest has been… um… in vain, oh yes, it has. Although I regret it deeply, to be sure, your estate will remain safely in my hands until you, um… until you hopefully marry, or else… well. It will remain, I suppose, um… and be up for sale sometime after your… passing.”

“This seems perfectly acceptable to me,” Harry declares with some satisfaction.

At this exact moment, the bell chimes to announce dinner is served, and they all move into the dining room. Throughout the meal, Harry’s mother questions Mr Pettigrew about Harry’s parents, and the man is more than happy to answer, delivering countless praise about their generous nature and kindness.

“Never before in my life and, oh yes, never since, have I… um… witnessed such behaviour in people of rank. Such affability. Numerous times I have been asked to sup at Godric’s Hollow and each time… um… invited to stay the night. Lady Potter has always spoken to me as she would… um… any other gentleman,” he says proudly.

Harry tries his best not to scoff. He wonders what sort of people his parents must have been to not only employ such a man in their service, but also to invite him in their home. Were they good people treating even the most miserable of people graciously, or simply terrible judges of character? Even Harry can see that through this humble façade, Mr Pettigrew is intensely greedy.

He drones on and on throughout the meal, describing Godric’s Hollow in the most minute detail and relating possibly every encounter he has ever had with the Potters. Harry listens only distractedly, ignoring the somewhat worried looks his father keeps throwing his way. He is eager for Mr Pettigrew to depart, but he has the sombre feeling he is the kind of man to overstay his welcome. As soon as he leaves, Harry has every intention to continue living his life as before, with no thought to his birth parents and the inheritance, and the house in Cornwall. None of it will ever belong to him, so why even think on it for a second?

* * *

_London,_   
_26 August 1814_

_Dear Severus,_

_What in the devil’s name is happening in that desolate town of Neville’s that you should feel the need to stay so long? I was under the impression that you were going to simply see the house and attend a ball and return at once. If the town is as horrible as you wrote in your last letter, I cannot conceive why you would want to remain now that Neville is settled. And what am I to do in your absence? What exactly am I to occupy myself with? I hope whatever is keeping you away is unbearable and that you are having as terrible a time as I am._

_Had I known I would have to be in London on my own for so long, I would have brought more books. Also, I am in desperate need of a new quill, and nearly out of good paper. Do you think it will magically replenish itself? What am I to do once I run out? Do you mean to completely shut me away from the world?_

_Also, I have been having trouble sleeping of late as my bed creaks terribly. I went into all the other bedrooms and found that only mine is creaking in this way. Did you know of this? Mrs Grant refuses to have the bed replaced without your permission. Will you please write her about it? You know how irritable I get when I don’t sleep enough._

_Before I forget, would you buy a new bottle of port? I am afraid I inadvertently finished the one in your study. I was so terribly, terribly bored, you see, and that new translation of Homer I told you about is incredibly displeasing, so in effort to forget I had ever laid eyes on it, I finished the port. Will you please buy a more decent bottle next time? This one was a bit too dry for my tastes._

_Julian_

_P.S. For your information, you missed the reception at the Lestranges. It was two days ago. I was looking forward to hearing more about the nasty rumour concerning Mr Rowle’s daughter, but how am I to know if you won’t attend?_

Severus represses a groan as he finishes the letter, folds it and tucks it into his pocket. How could he even think for a second that a letter from Julian would be enjoyable, that it would distract him? Well, to be fair, it did distract him well enough, but when is it ever anything but endless complaining? And yet, as annoyed as he is, he finds the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. As annoyed as he is, he must admit he misses Julian.

Perhaps he should heed the young man’s wishes and return to London at once. What is he waiting for exactly? What is he hoping will happen? He was hoping to become better acquainted with Harry Weasley, to make up for his terrible behaviour when they first met, but Severus has not seen him now in nearly a fortnight. At least thrice he had to stop himself from riding his horse to that strange house and inquire after the boy’s health. Surely the heat has passed now, and yet there has been no sign of him. Severus has become so desperate for news he even dared ask Pansy if she was perhaps thinking of visiting Miss Weasley again. Of course, she saw right through him and nagged him for the rest of the day. He has not said a word about it since, though the young man still occupies his every thought.

“Was that from Julian?” Theodore asks from the sofa, where he has been napping since after dinner.

“Who else?”

“What horror has befallen him this time?”

“He complains about books and paper. Amongst other things. You would think he was the most miserable person in this world.”

“I would be miserable as well in his situation,” Theodore admits, sitting up and stretching out a kink in his neck. “I’m sure it is not easy for someone like him to have to depend entirely on you.”

Severus smirks. “He has not shown the least bit of reticence about it, believe me. But perhaps I should write Benjamin and ask him to stop by the house and check on him. Perhaps bring some paper as well, and a few books. If only to make certain he does not destroy the house out of spite. He already drank all of my good port.”

“You could have him join us here,” Theodore suggests with a grin. “I am dying to see how the people of this town would take to him.”

Severus laughs sharply at the very thought. “ _That_ is a bad idea if I have ever heard one. Hogsmeade is not nearly ready for such an encounter. They have one Omega and can barely treat _him_ with respect, I dare not imagine how they would react to Julian, who, as you know, is much less discreet about his situation than Mr Weasley.”

“Perhaps meeting him would do Mr Weasley some good,” Theodore says with a shrug.

Severus ponders this for a moment, though he still has no intention of inviting Julian to visit. “I doubt Julian would enjoy Mr Weasley’s company.”

“I believe you’re mistaken. And truly, if there is one person alive who can help redeem you in Mr Weasley’s eyes, it’s Julian. Would you be up for a horse ride?” Theodore asks, standing up, already bored with the conversation.

“Perhaps later,” Severus says, but his friend is already leaving the room.

“Suit yourself!” comes the reply.

There is a terrible racket coming from somewhere in the house, and a flurry of indecipherable shouts in Pansy’s shrill, irritated voice.

Severus has been at Longbottom Manor for nearly a month now, and he has never before seen it as animated as it is today. Carriages have been arriving one after the other since morning, with the chairs and tables Neville has ordered from neighbouring towns. His parents had obviously never hosted a great number of people, because the furniture left in the house was not nearly enough to accommodate a large party, even with what had been stored away in spare rooms. The parquet in the large reception hall is finally being polished, the smell pungent even with all windows opened, and the large chandeliers have been removed for cleaning. Astoria has been gone since morning, sent away on a mission to find good drapes to replace the old ones in the reception hall, and Pansy has been ordering everyone around all day, including Neville himself. “It is time the people of this town know what a ball should look like,” she declared this morning.

Yes, she seems to be having the time of her life, though only last week she was absolutely opposed to the idea.

“Are you _really_ serious about hosting a ball?” she had said in disbelief when Neville asked Astoria, whose handwriting is quite beautiful, to write the invitations for him. “I thought you had only spoken of it the other day so that Mrs Weasley might stop pestering you. I never thought you were truly entertaining the idea!”

Neville seemed quite annoyed by her. “And why would I not? A ball is a terrific idea. The people of this town have been incredibly welcoming, and I feel I should return the favour.”

Pansy had pursed her lips at him in distaste. “I would strongly advise you to consult the wishes of _everyone_ present before taking such decisions. I believe there are some among us for whom a ball would be a punishment rather than a pleasure.”

“If you mean Severus, he can go to bed early if he chooses, before it begins. The matter is settled,” Neville declared firmly.

Despite what Pansy might like to think, Severus is not opposed to the idea of a ball in the slightest. In fact, he welcomes it, especially if it is to take place here at the manor, where he will be able to leave whenever he wishes to, retiring to his rooms when it becomes unbearable, as it inevitably will, as any ball ultimately does. But he hopes that before that, he will have a chance to finally ask Mr Weasley for a dance.

Yes, he has made his decision. The night of the ball, Severus will put aside his pride, and he will ask the Omega to dance, uncaring what anyone might think or say of it. And Mr Weasley will accept, and Severus will dance with him so well and be so kind and so polite that the young man will understand at last that Severus means him no harm, that he did not believe those terrible words he once said. He will understand that Severus is completely and thoroughly under his charm. That he has never been as enamoured with anyone else in this world before, nor does he believe he will ever be again. That he has lived forty years in absolute indifference, nearly convinced that there was nothing of importance in this world, until that day their eyes met across a crowded room.

Severus will never say this, of course, but dancing is a good start.


	8. surreption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling readers, here is a good, meaty chapter to make up for the wait. This is the longest one yet, and quite eventful. Somewhat of a turning point in the fic, in a way. I hope you will enjoy it, and feel free to comment and let me know what you think.
> 
> As always, I am liladiurne on Tumblr. Come and say hello!

* * *

**\- 8 -**

**surreption**

* * *

SURREPTION, _s_. [ _surreptus_ , Lat.]

Surprise; sudden and unperceived invasion.

\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

It does not take very long – in fact, it hardly takes an afternoon – for Harry to realise that Mr Pettigrew must not only be one of the most disgusting men alive, but also the most boring person to have ever drawn breath.

After supper, as he sits in the parlour with his family and their guest, Harry finds himself completely unable to concentrate on his book, with Mr Pettigrew’s raspy, droning voice constantly intruding on his reading – to say nothing of the man’s ceaseless gasping and sudden snorting laughter. Harry finally abandons all hope of reading and resorts to watching the man discreetly instead, for as distasteful as Mr Pettigrew can be, he has much to offer to an avid observer of people. Harry must admit that, in spite of the endless droning, there is amusement to be found in the man’s oddness. And in a strange sort of way, Mr Pettigrew is of a truly fascinating character.

“I have heard of your daughter’s beauty,” he tells Harry’s mother, “and those words… um… have not fallen short of the truth.” As he speaks, he keeps sneaking brief glances towards where Harry and Ginny sit – him half hiding behind his book, and his sister with a new piece of embroidery. “I do believe she must… um… be married quite soon.”

Harry’s sister does not react, but he sees her stab her needle through the linen particularly roughly.

Mrs Weasley takes a false air of surprise before answering, smiling at him over their card game, “You are very kind, Mr Pettigrew, and I wish with all my heart that it may be so. In fact,” she adds in a lower voice, as if in confidence, “she is likely to be very soon engaged.”

Harry has no doubt that Mr Pettigrew, having unknowingly chosen one of his mother’s absolute favourite topics of conversation, has just ingratiated himself in her eyes forevermore.

The man gasps at the revelation, throwing another glance their way. “How rejoiced I am to hear it, oh yes, indeed. And I am… um… certain the same could be said of… your son.”

Mrs Weasley laughs sharply at this, then she purses her lips, looking down at the cards in her hands and shaking her head. “Harry? Married? Oh goodness. He is too stubborn for that,” she says, barely attempting to hide her bitterness. She clicks her tongue before adding, “Such a shame, his poor parents’ name and fortune going unclaimed. Such a waste.”

She was quite outraged indeed, to hear Harry’s thoughts on the subject of his possible inheritance, and cannot, for the life of her, understand _why_ he would feel this way. Surprisingly, she has not openly argued with him on the matter, possibly because of the presence of their guest – a rare feat of decorum on her part. Unsurprisingly, however, the distressed emotional state Harry found her in upon waking up from his heat did not last very long. As soon as she knew he was perfectly safe, she had returned to her usual nagging and pestering self.

“I must admit,” Mr Pettigrew continues, this time looking directly at Harry, who fixes his eyes on the page and tries to pretend he does not notice the stare, “I did not expect to find… um… a young man of such… fine beauty when I set off for this town. Dr Granger had… um… described Mr Harry to be of fine disposition and charm, but I… um… could not imagine it to this extent.”

Harry tries harder to concentrate on his book, very much wanting to disappear through the floor.

As for his mother, she nearly squeals in delight. “How kind of you, Mr Pettigrew! How kind he is, isn’t he, Harry dear? Such a lovely compliment!”

Mr Pettigrew snorts a laugh, which echoes quite loudly in the room, then he takes a ridiculous air of modesty. “These are the kind of little… um… delicate compliments that are always acceptable… always well-received, and which I… um… consider myself particularly bound to pay.”

“And are these compliments an impulse of the moment,” Harry inquires, “or the result of careful planning?”

“Oh, they arise from what is passing at the time!” Mr Pettigrew exclaims, seemingly delighted to be addressed so and unaware of the taunt. “And though I… um… must admit that I sometimes amuse myself with… um… arranging little elegant compliments beforehand, I always… um… wish to give them as… unstudied an air as possible,” he finishes proudly.

Harry represses a smirk. “Believe me,” he tells the man, “no one would ever suspect your manners to be… um… rehearsed.”

Next to him, Ginny chuckles soundlessly, and their father, sitting at the card table, clears his throat loudly. The mockery, however, is lost on their mother, as expected, and Mr Pettigrew seems to take it as a praise. Perhaps unfortunately for Harry.

Another one of Mr Pettigrew’s favoured topics seems to be his clientele. Just as he takes pride in being in charge of Harry’s father’s estate, he relishes in enumerating the list of important people he has done business with.

“I am honoured to have as my clients,” he begins once he has exhausted all his little compliments, “many an… um… honourable man, the most recent Lord Riddle. You… um… have heard of him, I presume?”

“I daresay I have not,” says Harry’s father.

Mr Pettigrew gasps. “Oh, how unfortunate! Thrice I have been invited to his home to… um… meet with him and to dine. He has heard of my… um… services through word of mouth, I believe, from other… important clients, and announced that he would like to… um… obtain them himself, for a project of his, which I am afraid I am not allowed to speak of. Sadly, yes, indeed. I am… um… most honoured to have been chosen, oh most honoured… indeed.”

He talks about this Lord Riddle for quite some time afterwards, describing the man’s lineage and the man’s home, and speaking of the beauty of his young daughter. Harry tries in vain to concentrate on his book as Mr Pettigrew drones on but again cannot manage it.

“I wonder if I might…um… read to you all for an hour or so before we retire for the night,” Mr Pettigrew says afterwards. “I have brought with me… um… a fine copy of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , which I am sure will not fail to… charm you all.”

It is not a better way to end the evening, of course, though as he drones on some more – the droning made even worse by the platitude of the text – Harry is convinced that none of them will have any trouble sleeping that night. He has never been fond of _Paradise Lost_ , and Mr Pettigrew certainly does not manage to improve his sentiments.

Later, as they are all leaving the parlour to get ready for bed, Harry manages to be alone with Ginny long enough to ask her thoughts on the man. He is not so surprised to find out that even his sister, who has the gift of seeing the best in everyone, does not seem to like Mr Pettigrew either.

“He is an oddity,” she mutters, slowly gathering her embroidery things. “What do you make of him?”

“I cannot make him out exactly,” Harry has to admit. “He wants to appear humble, but there is something very pompous about him. A strange mixture of servility and self-importance.”

His sister nods. “He makes me uneasy. I am impatient to see him gone.”

Harry shares her feelings, but he takes comfort in the certainty that, in the morning, the man will certainly take his leave.

The next morning, although anyone would deem that, by informing Harry of the conditions of his inheritance, Mr Pettigrew has accomplished the purpose of his visit already, the man shows no sign of wanting to leave, nor does he express any estimate on when he might be planning to.

One thing is certain, however. Mr Pettigrew has not yet been at The Burrow one full day that already its occupants are eager for him to leave. It has become obvious to Harry that he is the sort of man to outstay his welcome wherever he goes, and he knows that by now his father must regret extending this invitation, although Mr Weasley has not explicitly said so.

All through breakfast, the notary once again expresses his awe of the house and of the beauty of the surrounding land, claiming that he has always been incredibly fond of the countryside and that this nature and this fresh air will do him some good. He then talks again of this Lord Riddle he is so fond of, and Mrs Weasley indulges him, asking all sorts of questions about his other relations, his life in London, his family. Harry hardly listens at all, throwing accusing glances at his mother, who ignores them completely. She seems to be unaware of how despicable the man is – both in appearance and in character – and though it is in her nature to be unsuspecting of people’s deeper motives, Harry has come to suspect her interest has everything to do with the pointed admiration Mr Pettigrew has been showing him in particular.

Harry does not like the way the man looks at him, the way he keeps sneaking those little glances he may think are discreet but really are not. He does not like the _delicate compliments_ , as the man calls them, that constantly get thrown his way. He desperately wants to tell Mr Pettigrew that none of this is necessary, that the Potters are long dead now, and that there is no need for this reverence to be passed onto him simply because he is their son. Harry is a Weasley – has always been, as far as he is concerned – and Mr Pettigrew owes him none of the respect or endless grovelling he showed his parents.

But what scares him most of all is the thought that perhaps all this unwanted attention does not stem from the man’s esteem for his late parents at all, or not entirely. Perhaps Harry was wrong to let his guard down simply because Mr Pettigrew is a Beta. If Charlie were here, he would shake his head and remind Harry that there are distrustful people everywhere, in every class of society, and that one must always be wary of strangers.

 _You must trust your instinct, always_ , Charlie would say, softly but intently. _This shift in your insides, this little spark of doubt that tells you there is danger. You must never ignore it_.

There is more than a spark in Harry’s mind when it comes to Mr Pettigrew. There is something close to aversion. No doubt this man craves power and fortune. One does not need be very observant to understand this, if the way the notary speaks of Harry’s parents or of this Lord Riddle is any indication, or the way he seems to notice every single object of value when his eyes glance around a room, from the beautiful drapes in the parlour to the antique silverware in the dining room. The man prides himself in being an _appreciator of beauty_ , which is one of the stupidest things Harry has ever heard, because _who_ does not appreciate beauty? The words were made even worse by the fact that Mr Pettigrew looked straight at him as he said this.

After breakfast, Harry finds himself so desperate to escape Mr Pettigrew’s presence that he decides, despite his reticence of the last week, to walk to town. There must be countless letters awaiting him at Mr Ollivander’s shop by now, and he is so eager to be away from the notary’s unwanted glances that he considers those of the townsfolk the lesser of two evils. At least he knows _their_ thoughts and is used to their gossiping and their judgments. He intends to walk very slowly so as to be away from home for as long as possible. He may even spend more time than necessary in the bookshop, or perhaps even visit Hermione afterwards and ask if she wants to accompany him to the Shack. Yes, this would easily keep him away from The Burrow all afternoon.

“Oh, I’m coming with you!” Ginny hisses urgently when he tells her of his plans, before running towards the stairs. “Let me fetch my hat. Don’t leave without me!”

Mr Pettigrew is in the study with his father, and he smiles amicably when Harry enters, perhaps expecting him to be joining them for another dull conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt. I wondered if I may have money for the post,” Harry tells his father, ignoring the other man.

Mr Weasley raises a surprised eyebrow. “Oh, you are heading to town! Splendid!” he says pleasantly, standing from his chair at once to fetch his coin purse before adding, to Harry’s absolute horror, “Perhaps Mr Pettigrew would care to accompany you? He was just telling me once again how much good the countryside is doing him already. I cannot think of what would be better than a walk into town. Will you not go, Mr Pettigrew? Surely you would not want to spend a whole day in this miserable study with me when you could be enjoying a pleasant walk and fresh air?”

Mr Pettigrew stands so abruptly his knee collides with the side table, causing the lamp on top of it to wobble. “Oh!” he gasps. “Oh! It would be my pleasure, yes, indeed! It would be my pleasure to… um… accompany Mr Harry into town. I could not think of… um… of a better way to start the day.”

“You traitor,” Harry hisses softly as his father hands him a large amount of coins, which he quickly recognises as an incentive.

Mr Weasley smiles and mumbles, for Harry’s ears only, “I will _strangle_ him if he stays. You _must_ take him, or I will strangle him!”

Ginny is not happy about this outcome either. Obviously, in wanting to accompany her brother, she had also been hoping to evade the notary, and upon learning that he is to accompany them, she hesitates and seems ready to announce that she has changed her mind, until Harry narrows his eyes at her threateningly. She then sighs and smiles politely at Mr Pettigrew, pretending to be delighted that he has decided to come along. However, she grabs onto Harry’s arm as soon as they step off the porch, surely in fear that Mr Pettigrew might want to escort her. Harry is grateful for the initiative, for he has the strong feeling that if Mr Pettigrew were to want to escort one of them, the odds are that he would pick _him_ rather than his sister.

The man has short legs and much trouble keeping up with their faster gait. He huffs and puffs the whole way, remarking on the beauty of the landscape but also on the heat, and keeps dabbing at his glistening forehead with a yellowed handkerchief.

“I am… in general… a much better… um… walker than a… reader,” he gasps as they finally walk into town.

Harry does not comment on this, not only because Mr Pettigrew’s walking is just as terrible as his monotone droning of the night before, but also because the sight that meets his eyes causes him to forget all about it. The town is swarming with people today, and the main street is a veritable sea of red coats.

“Officers,” Harry remarks with certain disdain.

He has never really been fond of soldiers – other than Charlie, of course – as quite a lot of them are rowdy and crude. And in his mind, the presence of Mr Pettigrew is quite enough for him today without being confronted with the militia in addition. The military is also rumoured to be a popular choice of career for Alphas, which makes him even warier, given his new situation.

“I forgot to tell you,” Ginny gasps, squeezing his arm. “Do you want to go back?”

“No, no,” Harry says at once, unwilling to show just how unsettled he is by the sight and the smells. “I will be fine.”

Ginny points further down the street, to a few ladies amongst the officers. “I see Susan over there.”

“You go and greet her while I get the post. Mr Pettigrew, would you please do me the favour of escorting my sister? I should be back shortly.”

He is already walking towards the general store when Mr Pettigrew lets out a gasp of excitement at the prospect, and Harry grins as he pushes the door open, imagining the dark stare Ginny must be throwing him behind his back. This should serve her as punishment enough for failing to inform him of the militia’s arrival in town.

Mr Ollivander does not comment on Harry’s prolonged absence, thankfully, although the old man does eye him unnecessarily intensely, as if trying to find something different about him. Or perhaps he really means nothing by it, and this is only how Harry is interpreting their encounter in spite of himself. Nevertheless, Harry shows no sign of discomfort or hostility, reminding himself of his father’s words. The townspeople will talk about him regardless and hiding from them will only make things worse – as would confronting them.

When he leaves the shop, Charlie’s latest letter safely tucked into his pocket, the last thing Harry expects is to be confronted with Cormac. He is so distracted by the town’s noisy bustle and the abundance of so many strange smells after not leaving home for over a week, that he does not even notice the young man waiting for him outside the shop until he appears before him. There are so many people about, what with the officers and the general excitement their presence causes, that no one seems to notice the encounter.

“There you are,” Cormac says with a smirk, blocking Harry’s way so completely that there is no chance of escape – on the left is a group of officers talking loudly, and on the right a carriage out of which two men are unloading heavy bags of flour. “I wondered when I would be seeing you. Have you been hiding from me?”

Harry flinches away when Cormac lifts a hand to touch his cheek, moving out of reach at the last moment. The only way to escape, however, is to enter the shop again, but Cormac would surely follow him inside, cornering him even more. He keeps as safe a distance as he possibly can and speaks firmly and fearlessly, though his eyes are darting around, looking for safe passage. “Leave me alone, McLaggen. I have to go find my sister.”

Cormac frowns, looking nearly offended. “Don’t be rude, _Harry_ ,” he says in a low voice, and Harry feels bright hot anger at being addressed by his first name again, and in such a predatory way. “I _told_ you I would wait. I have been patient, and now you owe me–”

“I owe you nothing!” Harry hisses furiously. “Get out of my way, you brute!”

Cormac is equally flushed with anger now, red to the root of his hair and lips trembling, and he grabs Harry’s wrist so suddenly Harry cannot stop the choked gasp that escapes his throat. “You little–” Cormac growls.

“Unhand him at once!” a voice says, interrupting the doubtless demeaning insult Cormac was about to utter.

They turn to see the group of officers parting to make way for a tall, blond soldier. His hair, quite long and tied back, glows silver in the sunlight, and his blue eyes are fixed coldly on Cormac.

“I do not like to repeat myself,” the stranger adds sternly. “I believe the young man asked you to leave him alone. Unhand him. Now. Or I will make you.”

Cormac lets go of Harry’s wrist at once, and for a long moment, he looks straight into the soldier’s eyes, holding his gaze. It nearly seems like they are talking, although no words pass their lips. Finally, after surely a full minute, Cormac tears his gaze away, bows his head and leaves without a word, and without sparing one more glance in Harry’s direction. The group of officers, who have also been observing the scene, return to their conversation, though they follow Cormac’s retreat with their eyes, as if to ascertain that the threat is properly gone.

The newcomer’s gaze softens as soon as it falls on Harry, and it transforms his face so completely that Harry is at a loss for words. He is an Alpha, that much is clear, and Harry would be able to tell even without the strong scent of him, if only from the man’s demeanour and what has just happened with Cormac. The only time Harry has seen Alphas look at each other in this challenging way is when he was younger, and Bill and Charlie had a nasty argument about which one of them would get to dance first with the beautiful daughter of a visiting lord. When Harry had tried to intervene, distraught to see his brothers fighting, his father had taken him by the shoulders and led him to the side, warning him not to intervene. After staring at each other for a long moment, Charlie had averted his eyes and shrugged before walking away. _Alpha things_ , he had told Harry later, when asked what had happened. _Don’t worry about it_.

When at first the man seemed cold and menacing, now that Cormac is gone, he smiles gently and is careful in his approach, as if ready to retreat at any word from Harry. “Are you well?” he asks with some worry.

Harry realises he has been rubbing at his wrist unconsciously – not with pain, but as if trying to erase the trace of Cormac’s touch. “I… yes,” he says softly, unable to look away from the blue eyes and the kind smile. “Thank you, sir.”

 _Idiot_ , he thinks, feeling his cheeks warm up. _Could you not think of anything better to say?_

“Sir,” he begins again, “I am very–”

“Wait,” the officer says suddenly, a frown forming on his handsome face. “Not one more word.”

Harry falls silent, perplexed. The man has not spoken rudely at all, but with a sort of exasperation, as if scolding himself. There is laughter in his eyes as he jerks his head towards Mr Ollivander’s shop in a conspiratorial way, indicating for Harry to follow when he enters.

“Mr Ollivander,” he calls as soon as they are inside, making the old shopkeeper look up from his ledger in surprise. “You know everyone in this town, do you not?”

“I… um… Why yes, I do,” the old man replies, confused, looking first at the officer and then at Harry behind him.

“Splendid. Would you perhaps be so kind as to introduce me to this young man?” the officer asks before grinning at Harry, who finds himself grinning back in amusement.

Mr Ollivander seems just as surprised at this turn of events as Harry is, although he complies, closing the ledger before announcing, in a pale imitation of the way the mayor handles proper introductions, “Mr Malfoy, this young man is Mr Harry Weasley. Mr Weasley, may I introduce Mr… Malfoy,” he finishes hesitantly, obviously unaware of the man’s first name.

“Lucius Malfoy,” the officer reveals gallantly, turning his shining eyes to Harry and performing a little bow, ridiculous and charming at once.

“Mr Malfoy is a lieutenant,” Mr Ollivander adds.

“An enchanted lieutenant. Many thanks, Mr Ollivander.” Mr Malfoy then opens the shop door, holding it for Harry. “Now we may speak openly with no risk of creating a scandal,” he explains.

As they emerge once again in the warm summer morning, Harry finds himself at a complete loss at what to say or how to act. Never before has he met such a man as this Mr Malfoy. Yes, he has met gallant men before, but never so charming and selfless. Mr Longbottom is very gallant and kind and charming, but he does not quite have the same… _allure_ as Mr Malfoy possesses. Perhaps it is only that Harry has never seen this in an Alpha before. Well, his brothers are very gallant and selfless, but they are his brothers. What Harry really means is that no man or Alpha has ever acted this way _towards him_. Not in this town.

“May I see your wrist?” Mr Malfoy asks carefully, for Harry has unconsciously started rubbing it again – it does not hurt now either, but he could not think what else to do with his hands.

“Oh, I… I assure you, I am fine,” Harry says hurriedly, surely blushing bright red, if the heat on his face is any indication, but when Mr Malfoy reaches out to take his hand, he makes no move to pull away though the breath catches in his throat.

Mr Malfoy’s hands are gentle as they unbutton Harry’s cuff and push the sleeve up to look at the skin underneath. He turns the wrist over to observe closely, barely brushing the skin with his fingers, though Harry feels a pleasant shiver rush down his spine.

“No visible damage, it seems,” Mr Malfoy announces at last, before fixing Harry’s sleeve and cuff. “A relief, truly. Or I would have to chase that despicable young man from town for his impudence,” he adds with a note of humour to his voice.

“He is the mayor’s son,” Harry protests, finding his voice again as Mr Malfoy’s hands retreat. “I doubt anyone would be able to chase him from town.

The Alpha raises an elegant eyebrow. “You underestimate my perseverance, Mr Weasley. There is nothing a man cannot achieve if he is determined enough,” he says somewhat mysteriously.

“Harry!” someone calls before he can find it in him to reply, and a moment later Ginny appears through the crowd. “I was looking for you. All these people…” She trails off when she notices Mr Malfoy, her eyes widening slightly.

“Mr Malfoy, this is my sister Ginevra. Ginny, this is Lieutenant Malfoy,” Harry introduces, and he is satisfied to see a blush form on Ginny’s cheeks as she takes in the man’s flattering countenance.

“A pleasure, truly.” Mr Malfoy bows his head politely before pressing a kiss to Ginny’s hand, which Harry hardly manages to convince himself he is not a little jealous of.

“Where is Mr Pettigrew?” he asks instead, as there is no sign of the man.

“Oh, I am afraid I don’t know. I must have lost him in the crowd.” She does not seem particularly disappointed by this, and Harry suspects she must have lost him on purpose, as he himself would have done. “I am certain we shall find him again soon. I wanted to go look at some ribbon. Will you come?”

“May I be so bold as to accompany you?” Mr Malfoy says pleasantly. “I would like to assure myself that the young man from before will not trouble you again,” he tells Harry.

“Which young man?” Ginny asks, surprised before adding, almost immediately. “Not Cormac?”

“Yes, Cormac. Mr Malfoy was kind enough to rescue me from his dreadful clutches,” Harry explains lightly, but his sister looks dubious and worried.

“A truly odious character,” Mr Malfoy adds with some disdain before smiling at them. “Shall we look for some ribbon together?”

As the three of them walk to the shop, Harry cannot help but think that Mr Malfoy’s appearance is greatly in his favour. He has all the best parts of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. He possesses a readiness of conversation that makes it easy and pleasant to talk to him, and there is a near constant curl to his lips, as if he is always ready for a laugh, but not in a derisive or mocking way. 

“I must warn you,” he says as they enter the shop, where all sorts of beautiful ribbons and pieces of fabric hang from the walls and from racks attached to the ceiling. “If you should ever ask my advice, I cannot be trusted. I have very poor taste in ribbons.”

Harry smiles at the lie, having of course noticed the black velvet ribbon that ties Mr Malfoy’s hair back. “Only a man truly confident of himself would admit such a thing,” he teases.

Mr Malfoy nods gravely. “It is true, unfortunately. And buckles as well. When it comes to buckles, I am lost.”

This time, Harry laughs, and the way Mr Malfoy smiles at him makes his heart jolt. “You must be the shame of the regiment.”

“A veritable laughing-stock,” Mr Malfoy adds with a heavy sigh, contemplating the vast array of hanging ribbons, brushing them with his fingers in a similar fashion as the one with which he touched Harry’s wrist earlier.

“And what do your superiors do with you?” Harry asks, amused, his eyes never leaving the man.

He is surprised to see Mr Malfoy’s face turn sad, if only for a moment, before the man smiles again, though his voice takes a soft and maudlin tone. “They ignore me, mostly. I’m of next to no importance to any of them. It is easily done.”

Harry stares at him a moment, unsure what to say to this. He cannot imagine how a man like Mr Malfoy could ever be ignored by anyone.

Yet, an instant later, the officer adds, with a renewed smile, “I am, however, renowned for my good taste in muslin. Should your sister need any advice.” He looks around for Ginny, who appears to have wandered further away, out of earshot.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him through the ribbons, glad that Mr Malfoy seems not to be too affected by this treatment from his superiors. “Muslin? Are you mocking me?”

“I would never dare,” the Alpha says, falsely offended. “You must believe me. I am considered somewhat of an expert in the matter of muslin. Many of my comrades know to refer to me before making a purchase of any sort.”

Harry laughs at the ridiculousness of the statement. “And is muslin very popular amongst the officers?”

Mr Malfoy’s lips curl into a secretive smile and he tells Harry, in a low voice, “More than you think.”

They find Mr Pettigrew again as they exit the shop. He runs up to them, out of breath, relieved to have found Ginny at last, but quite deterred to find them in the company of Mr Malfoy. Harry imagines the lieutenant’s presence must cause determent to many a man such as Mr Pettigrew, with their short stature and wheezy voice and suspicious eyes. As they head out of town, the Alpha insists again to accompany them for a time to ensure that Cormac will not retaliate. There has been no sign of him, however, and Harry likes to think Mr Malfoy wants to walk with them so as not to be parted from his company just yet. Although he would never dare assume such a thing, the thought is a pleasant one. He walks by Mr Malfoy’s side the whole way, glad for the opportunity to ignore Mr Pettigrew once more.

It is strange, how Harry would normally be upset at such attentions. He would normally be opposed to being escorted this way and he would insist that he is perfectly able to defend himself and keep Cormac at bay. But Mr Malfoy is kind and gallant and amusing. In Harry’s mind, he is everything a proper Alpha should be. And the way the man looks at him is unlike anything Harry has ever known.

They are nearing the Grangers’ house when the sound of horses draws their notice, and a moment later they are met with Mr Longbottom, Mr Nott, and Mr Snape riding down the road the opposite way, as if they have just returned from The Burrow.

“We have just come from your house,” Mr Longbottom confirms after greeting them, looking very handsome on his white horse, in his pale blue waistcoat. “I wanted to ensure your family had received my invitation,” he adds, a blush blooming on his cheeks. “To the ball.”

“Oh, we received it last week,” Ginny says, smiling brightly, obviously delighted to see him. “We would not miss it for the world.”

Neville laughs. “That is exactly what your mother said.”

Harry, thoroughly unprepared to see Mr Snape again today, and whose heart clenched in his chest at the sight of the man’s unmistakable approaching silhouette, remains close by Mr Malfoy’s side, though he knows not why exactly. Perhaps he feels safe with this man after having been rescued earlier, not that Mr Snape would dare attack him in any way, surely. Not in front of his own friends and Harry’s sister and two strangers. But as Ginny and Mr Longbottom exchange pleasantries – none of them having met since Harry and Ginny visited and missed the mayor’s ball shortly after that – Harry notices the pointed coldness of Mr Snape’s gaze when it comes to rest on Mr Malfoy. Yes, Mr Snape’s gaze is often cold, but this time Harry notices it all the more. It is like something in the air, something palpable. Mr Malfoy, however, does not seem in the least threatened or unsettled by the dark glare. He nods his head in acknowledgement, never moving from Harry’s side. Mr Snape does not return the nod, and a second later, brusquely, he leads his horse away at a galop.

“I believe that is our cue to leave,” Mr Longbottom says with a laugh as his friend departs, not having noticed the rudeness or the cold that passed between Mr Snape and Mr Malfoy. “A lovely day to you all.”

As Mr Longbottom and Mr Nott galop away after their friend, Mr Malfoy turns to Harry. “I should also head back to town and join my fellow officers,” he says regretfully before smiling in amusement. “Mr Pettigrew shall keep you safe, I expect, if any danger should come your way.”

Harry’s heart is unexpectedly heavy as the man departs, and he watches his silhouette until it disappears around the bend in the road, wondering when he will have another occasion to speak to him.

“Mr Malfoy is very gallant,” his sister remarks as they continue on their way home. “How kind of him to come to your aid. You should tell Papa about Cormac. He would want to know.”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

But Ginny will have none of it. “If you don’t tell him, I will. This is serious, Harry.”

And she _does_ tell their father, almost as soon as they set foot in the house. Predictably, Mr Weasley is furious, but Harry manages to convince him that no harm was done, that he would not have let anything happen to him even if Mr Malfoy had not intervened, that he can defend himself against the likes of Cormac. And although Harry would have rather kept his father in the dark about this unfortunate encounter, he is not disappointed with the outcome of the revelation, because Mr Weasley declares that he wants to meet this Mr Malfoy for himself, and insists they invite him to supper the next evening. Shortly after, an invitation is sent, and by dinnertime, it has been accepted.

In all this excitement, Harry forgets about Charlie’s letter until much later that day, while he is getting ready for bed.

_Toulouse,_   
_16 August 1814_

_My dearest Harry,_

_I do wish you could be here, for my own selfish reasons, as I crave company more and more each day. But as you wrote, I doubt Father would allow you to travel so far, certainly not on your own. And I would not either, no matter how much I miss you. I beg you not to feel sad about it and not to be angry at Father for wanting you safe. The war may be over, but the world will always be a dangerous place. Be patient. Before you know it, I will be able to leave, and as soon as I am allowed, be assured I will make my way home to you at once._

_I have started the book you sent and am enjoying it quite a lot, although I have not been reading so much as before, for I am now allowed to leave my bed and wander around the hospital as much as I want during the day. They have provided me with a wheelchair so that I do not strain myself or risk causing more damage to my healing wound. On my wanderings I have come across a French soldier who speaks a little bit of English, and we have had some conversations. Frankly, he is a little dull to talk to, and we are often hindered by our lack of skills in the other’s language, but I visit, nonetheless. He is bedridden still and seems happy to see me every time. I suspect he is as lonely as I am. We have taken to playing cards of late, which is easy to do without talking. Yesterday, one of the nurses took me outside, and I was allowed to sit in the garden, where there is a lovely view of the river, for an hour or two._

_I am so happy you like the drawing. Perhaps I can finish it when I come home. How I wish I could have been there for your birthday. Perhaps we could have stolen the horses and ridden to that bookshop you like in Hatfield, or out in the hills for a picnic. I am glad the others have not forgotten to write to you as well. You should have sent me that play instead of burning it. I long for a good laugh, and Fred and George never fail to deliver. As for Ron, he is an idiot. I cannot pretend to understand what sort of game he is playing, and though I do not have your skills in the study of people, I am thoroughly disappointed in him. Tell Ginny I miss her and will try to bring a gift for her when I come home. Perhaps some lace for a dress. What do you think?_

_About the Longbottom heir, I can perfectly imagine Mother’s enthusiasm at the news, and Father pretending to be disinterested with it. How I miss everyone, you cannot possibly imagine. Yes, even Percy. Have you met the newcomer, and what impression do you have of him? What has happened since you last wrote? Tell me everything in your next letter, I beg you._

_Love,_   
_Charlie_

Harry puts the letter away in Charlie’s pile on the desk and settles in bed, Hedwig pressed into his side, as always. What has happened since he last wrote? So much has happened he cannot even begin to think where to start. Should he tell Charlie about _everything_? About Mr Longbottom? About Mr Snape? About his heat? About how he feels in regard to Mr Malfoy already?

He has always been honest with Charlie, and open about many things he never discusses with his other siblings, but this… This he doubts he can tell Charlie about, even in a letter. Is it even acceptable to discuss such things with an Alpha, even if said Alpha is a brother? It may very well be, but Charlie is not his brother by blood, so _is it_ reasonable? Is it even necessary to mention the heat at all? Charlie will know when he returns, will certainly be able to smell it. Perhaps he will even smell it on the letter when he receives it.

With all these thoughts in his head, and with the memory of his encounter with Mr Malfoy, it takes a very long time for Harry to find sleep that night.

When Mr Malfoy walks into the house the next evening, Harry feels again that he has never looked at a man with such a high degree of unreasonable admiration before. He has met many men, he has met Alphas and officers, all of them very gentlemanlike, but Mr Malfoy is far beyond them all in presence, countenance, allure, and charm. None of this is lost on his parents, particularly on Harry’s mother, who blushes brightly when handed a bouquet of wildflowers Mr Malfoy has brought for her.

When they retire to the parlour to wait for supper, the Alpha sits by Harry at once, and they fall into conversation in a most agreeable manner. At first, they talk only about this being a particularly lovely night with mild weather, but Harry feels that the commonest, dullest, most usual topics can be rendered interesting by the skill of this speaker. Whatever Mr Malfoy says is said well, and whatever he does is done gracefully.

At first, Mr Pettigrew, who is engaged in a game of backgammon with Harry’s father, tries to take part in their conversation, though they are seated on the other side of the room, but eventually gives up, as he is continually ignored. Mr Malfoy speaks afterwards on more general topics, such as Hogsmeade, the countryside, the society, with gentle but very fond gallantry. Harry converses with him easily, though he wishes to ask one thing in particular – the history of his acquaintance with Mr Snape. He dares not mention the man, but his curiosity is unexpectedly relieved when Mr Malfoy broaches the subject himself.

“Tell me, how far is Longbottom Manor from town?”

Harry hesitates. “I have not been often. From here, following the road, I suspect an hour or so on foot. Less from town.”

Mr Malfoy nods, and he is silent for a moment before asking, in a low voice, “How long has Mr Snape been staying there?”

“About a month,” Harry says. Then, unwilling to let the subject drop just yet, he adds, “He owns a very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

“Yes. His estate is a noble one, passed down from his mother’s family. A clear ten thousand a year.” Mr Malfoy falls silent again. “We have been acquainted in a particular manner from a young age,” he reveals.

Harry cannot help but look surprised. Yes, he did suspect the two Alphas knew each other, but what he witnessed on the road is not what one would expect of childhood friends unexpectedly crossing paths.

“You may well be surprised at such a revelation after witnessing the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday,” Mr Malfoy adds as if reading his thoughts. “Are you well acquainted with Mr Snape?”

“About as much as I ever wish to be.”

Mr Malfoy laughs fondly at this, and Harry catches sight of his father throwing a cautious glance their way from the card table, but Mr Weasley says nothing. Harry is aware of what they might look like, sitting apart from the others, speaking in low voices as if sharing secrets. But he cannot find it in himself to be ashamed of it.

“I have spent two days in the same house with him, and I find him very disagreeable,” Harry explains.

“I feel I have no right to give my opinion on whether he is agreeable or not,” Mr Malfoy says slowly. “I am not qualified to form one, having known him too long and too well to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would astonish a great many people.”

Harry scoffs. “He is not at all well liked in Hogsmeade, I assure you. Everybody is disgusted with his pride.”

Mr Malfoy hums in contemplation. “I cannot pretend to be disappointed or sorry for him,” he admits before marking a pause. “It is only fair that a man should be judged by their character rather than their prestige, but with him, I am afraid it does not often happen. People tend to be blinded by his fortune or frightened by his high and imposing manners. They see him only as he chooses to be seen.”

Harry shakes his head. “I have observed, even on being only slightly acquainted with him, that he is an ill-tempered man.”

“I wonder if he is likely to stay here much longer,” Mr Malfoy muses.

“I don’t know, but I heard nothing of his leaving when I was at Longbottom Manor. Even his friends seemed surprised that he chose to stay for so long. He does not seem particularly fond of the town, and I wonder what is keeping him.”

Mr Malfoy only smiles at that, somewhat knowingly, but he says nothing.

“I hope your stay in Hogsmeade will not be affected by his presence here,” Harry says, almost blushing at the urgency of his own words.

But Mr Malfoy shrugs in an unconcerned but elegant way. “Oh, no. It is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr Snape. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, _he_ must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always pains me to see him, but I have no reason for avoiding him, although I do have a sense of most painful regrets when confronted with him.” He pauses before lowering his voice some more. “I can never be in Mr Snape’s company without being grieved by a thousand recollections,” he says softly. “His behaviour towards me has been scandalous, but I believe I could forgive him anything and everything, if it were not for what he has done to my father.”

Harry’s heart tightens at the weight and emotion behind those words, and he desperately wants to ask what horrible thing Mr Snape could possibly have done. But he cannot find it in himself to question Mr Malfoy further and risk being indiscreet.

“Mr Weasley,” Mr Malfoy says suddenly, addressing Harry’s father. “It is such a beautiful evening and I find myself longing to take a breath of fresh air. I wonder if you would allow your son to accompany me outside until supper. We would remain on the porch, of course, where you can see us from the window,” he adds in such a gentlemanly manner that Harry’s heart jumps into his throat and he hopes he is not blushing too brightly.

“How considerate of you!” Harry’s mother exclaims. “How gallant!”

Mr Weasley looks surprised for an instant, then bows his head slightly. “If Harry wishes to accompany you, I have no objection.”

“I would love to,” Harry says at once.

Once they are outside, Mr Malfoy surprises Harry even further by taking a seat directly on the steps. It is such a casual gesture, so selfless and familiar, that he cannot stop the grin that forms on his lips, and finally resolves to sitting next to the man. How unlike anyone Harry has ever met is this Mr Malfoy! As soon as Harry believes he cannot be surprised by anything else, the man proves him wrong.

The window to the parlour is open behind them, so that they hear Mrs Weasley’s praise easily, for her voice is as loud and strident as always, but out here, their conversation is unlikely to be overheard.

“My father, Lord Abraxas Malfoy, was one of the best men that ever lived,” Mr Malfoy says after a while, looking out at the river in the darkness, where a ray of light from the house makes the water shine, “and the truest friend I have ever had. My mother having died when I was a child, he was excessively attached to me, as his only son. I cannot do justice to his kindness, and he meant to provide for me amply, but… through what I believe to be deceitful means, his fortune was given elsewhere.”

“But how could that be?” Harry asks softly. “Was his will disregarded?”

Mr Malfoy sighs heavily as he remembers, his eyes still fixed on the river. “My father took in Mr Snape as a ward when I was thirteen years old. He was five years younger than me and just orphaned following the death of his mother. He had been entrusted to his uncle, a busy man who did not have the time nor the interest to raise a child. My father, being a close friend, agreed to take Mr Snape and raise him until he came of age and inherited his titles and estates. We grew up together, attended college together. We were the best of friends for a time, Mr Snape and I. But he is a greedy man, and deceitful in a way I could not suspect. Later, my father fell very ill, and while he was on his deathbed and I was away in London, I believe Mr Snape travelled to Wiltshire to see him. He told my father the most horrible lies about me, ruining my reputation and tarnishing me in his eyes, and eventually, through these lies, he talked my father into changing the terms of his will. Thus, Mr Snape ended up with most of my father’s fortune following his death, leaving me with only a miserable portion. I was lucky enough to hold my father’s house, but eventually had to let it go. The property had been in my family for hundreds of years, and I can hardly bear to even think of its loss, but I had no choice, not being able to hold it with the little amount of money I had left. In his will, my father claims I had lost all rights to the whole of my inheritance by living in extravagance and imprudence. Lies, which I have no doubt were fed to him by Mr Snape.”

Harry is speechless, filled with fury. “This is dreadful!” he chokes out. “He deserves to be publicly disgraced!”

Mr Malfoy shakes his head sadly. “I can only hope that, some time or other, he will be, but it shall not be by me. I know what he is capable of, and I know when someone has had the better of me. I know not to try and seek justice from him. And I have no proof of what he did, only suspicions, I am afraid. Therefore, I can never defy or expose him.”

When he turns to Harry, he smiles so softly and humbly that Harry thinks him handsomer than ever for having expressed those feelings.

“But why should he act this way? What could have caused him to behave so cruelly towards you and to spread such lies?”

“A thorough dislike of me, I believe,” Mr Malfoy supposes, “which I can only attribute to some measure of jealousy. Had my father loved me less, Mr Snape might have loved me better. But I cannot hold him in disregard for it. He had lost his own parents so early in life, and his uncle had all but rejected him. He only wanted affection. How could I resent him for such a thing? He did not have the temper to endure the sort of competition in which we stood in my father’s eyes, the sort of preference which was given to me as his own son.”

They are silent for a long moment, both staring at the peaceful river, before Harry finds it in himself to speak.

“I had not thought Mr Snape so horrible as this, though I never liked him. I did suppose he disliked people in general, but I never suspected him to be so deeply malicious, even towards those closest to him, or to dare commit such injustice as this. To treat a friend in such a manner,” he adds disbelievingly. “One who had been his companion from such a young age, nearly a brother...”

“A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have made it the only eligible option for me,” Mr Malfoy says humbly. “Circumstances brought about by the gentleman we were just now speaking of,” he finishes with a deep sigh of regret.

“I am astonished by his friendship with Mr Longbottom! How can Mr Longbottom be friends with such a man? Do you know him?”

Mr Malfoy shakes his head. “Not at all. Mr Snape had already left my father’s estate when Mr Longbottom came into his care.”

“He is amiable and charming. He cannot possibly know what Mr Snape has done.”

“Surely not. Be assured that Mr Snape can please when he so chooses. He can be a good companion if he thinks it worth his while,” Mr Malfoy explains. “Among his equals, he is a very different man from what he is to the less fortunate. His pride never deserts him, but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, more sincere, honourable. Perhaps even agreeable.”

They remain silent for a time, listening to the conversation taking place in the parlour. It is only when they hear Mr Pettigrew begin again to praise this Lord Riddle of his that Mr Malfoy speaks again.

“Did you know that Lord Riddle, the very man your guest is speaking of, is Mr Snape’s great-uncle, which I mentioned earlier? He is the son of Mr Snape’s grandfather’s sister, I believe,” he says pensively. “He has but a daughter of his own, and no male relatives other than Mr Snape, making him his sole heir.”

Harry does his best not to gape at the revelation. “I did not know that. I knew nothing at all of Lord Riddle’s existence until the day before yesterday, when I met Mr Pettigrew.”

“Mr Snape inherited what was left of his father’s fortune, most of mine, and a most impressive estate from his mother’s family,” Mr Malfoy summarises. “And he just might inherit all of Lord Riddle’s fortune as well. One can only imagine what all this wealth will do to his pride.”

Harry shakes his head, filled with hatred and disgust. He does not dare imagine. “Mr Pettigrew speaks very highly of Lord Riddle, though I suspect his admiration for powerful men misleads him. Lord Riddle rather strikes me as an arrogant, conceited man. Not unlike his nephew.”

Mr Malfoy smiles. “You have a keen eye, Mr Weasley. I have not seen the man for many years, but he was close to my father, and I very well remember that I never liked him. His manners are dictatorial and insolent. He has the reputation of being remarkably clever, but I believe he has not many true qualities other than his rank and fortune.”

In the parlour, the conversation has turned to the ball. Mrs Weasley is once again expressing her eagerness to attend. Harry knots his fingers together on his lap to stop his hands shaking. He had not been looking forward to the ball before, but now…

“There is to be a ball at Longbottom Manor,” he says before he can stop himself.

“Ah yes,” Mr Malfoy says pleasantly. “An invitation has been extended to the officers yesterday. I look forward to attending.”

“Oh. It will be very grand, I believe.” Harry’s throat tightens, and he stares at the river in silence.

“You will attend, will you not?” Mr Malfoys asks suddenly. “I know hardly anyone in town besides my comrades, and I would appreciate a familiar face.”

A shaky breath escapes Harry’s throat. “My father will not let me miss it,” he says, smiling.

Mr Malfoy seems absolutely rejoiced at this. “Then you must promise me a dance.”

“Certainly,” Harry says tightly, his heart pounding in his chest. “It would be my pleasure.”

Mr Malfoy grins, seems to hesitate, and then whispers, “May I be greedy and ask for the first two?”

“You may,” Harry mumbles, trying not to dissolve into thin air out of sheer joy.

That night, Harry goes to bed with his head full of Mr Malfoy. Try as hard as he might, he can think of nothing else.

The next day, after breakfast, as Harry and Ginny are sitting out in the garden together, he relates to her what Mr Malfoy told him, taking advantage of Mr Pettigrew’s absence as the notary is once again intruding in their father’s study. Ginny listens with astonishment and concern, unable to believe that Mr Snape could be so unworthy of Mr Longbottom’s regard, and yet it is not in her nature to question the veracity of a man of such amiable appearance as Mr Malfoy. Though it is very much in Harry’s nature, he cannot bring himself to.

“I think there must have been a misunderstanding, Harry. I cannot imagine it,” she says firmly, looking up from her embroidery, eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “I know Mr Snape’s manners are less than agreeable, but I cannot conceive how any man would deceive a friend, nearly a brother, in this way. No man of common humanity would be capable of it. If he were, how could his most intimate friends be unaware of it?”

“Perhaps they _are_ aware of it,” Harry proposes.

She frowns deeply at him. “Do you really think Mr Longbottom capable to forgive such a despicable act?”

Harry shrugs. He is aware that his hatred of Mr Snape and his fondness for Mr Malfoy are clouding his judgement, and yet he finds it difficult to muster any sort of doubt in Mr Snape’s favour. “Perhaps Mr Longbottom is being deceived in a similar way. I would believe this before believing that Mr Malfoy would invent such a story. There was true honesty in his words,” he insists, “and in the way he said them.”

“It is a distressing thing to consider, you must admit. And I don’t know what to make of it.”

“I know _exactly_ what to think of it,” Harry says darkly.

Ginny only shakes her head at him in exasperation. “If Mr Longbottom is being deceived, as you say, he will suffer greatly if the affair were to be made public. Both from being betrayed in such a way, and from his association with Mr Snape.” She pauses and adds, in a most determined way, “I will try to discover the truth of it from him at the ball.”

Harry sighs, finally closing his book, having been unable to read a single word from it. “Poor, unfortunate Mr Malfoy. Why should he be made to suffer in such a way when he is twice the man Mr Snape is?”

Ginny grins at this. “Let us hope he is a rather more willing dancer as well.”

Monday arrives, not fast enough for Harry. Never before has he been so happy at the prospect of a ball. When at first he was dreading it, the thought of having the pleasure of dancing with Mr Malfoy makes it much more bearable, even exciting. Nothing, not even the revelation, made earlier that day, that the Weasleys’ invitation has been extended to their lingering guest, can ruin his joy at attending. As everyone rushes to get ready, he does, however, express his surprise that a man such as Mr Pettigrew would even be interested in a ball.

“Oh, I believe that… um… a ball of this kind, given by… um… a young man of such character, to… um… respectable people… will be very enjoyable, oh yes, indeed,” Mr Pettigrew explains, stuttering even more than usual. “I am so far from… um… objecting to dancing that I… um… I hope to… um… be honoured with the hand of a… pleasant partner. I take this… opportunity of… um… soliciting yours, Mr Harry… for the… the first dance.”

For a moment, Harry finds himself completely befuddled. He had not been expecting this. Certainly not. Perhaps he _should_ have, but he has been so preoccupied with thoughts of Mr Malfoy that he has forgotten to be wary of Mr Pettigrew’s advances.

“Forgive me, Mr Pettigrew,” he finally says, “but as it happens, I have already promised the first two dances to Mr Malfoy.”

“ _What?_ ” his mother cries, having overheard while she rushed through the room in a frenzy, as she tends to do before a ball. “What? Mr Malfoy has asked you to dance? _Why_ did you not tell me?” she insists, shaking him by the shoulders.

She then proceeds to pester him to try and do something proper with his hair, until she eventually turns her nagging onto Ginny, and he manages to escape to his room.

It takes him a long time to decide what to wear, and he finally settles, surprisingly, on the green waistcoat he wore at the assembly that fateful night when Mr Snape humiliated him. Harry has had no intention to wear it again after that, but he feels the desire to reconcile himself with it this night. It is a little too tightly fitted for him, and stiff and not very comfortable, but it suits him very well, and he has received compliments on it. Although slightly ashamed of it, he must admit to himself that he wants to impress Mr Malfoy. Tonight, for a change, Harry wants to be noticed.

Longbottom Manor has been transformed for the occasion. Whether new furniture has been bought or whether is was simply taken out of storage from the old days is unknown, but everything is beautiful and luxurious – chairs and armchairs and tables and sofas and glimmering candelabras. Even Harry’s mother has nothing to say about anything and looks quite speechless, her mouth opened in a silent gasp and her eyes bulging with envy at it all. The front lawn, the entrance hall, the parlour, and every part Harry can see is swarming with people, townsfolk and officers alike.

As soon as Harry enters the house, he looks for Mr Malfoy amongst the various clusters of red coats assembled here and there. And though all day long he has been in the highest of spirits at the hope of finally being able to dance – and with Mr Malfoy at that – it rapidly becomes obvious to him that the man appears to be absent. His silver blond hair would be quite noticeable in any crowd, and there is no sign of it anywhere. By the time the dancing starts, Mr Malfoy still has not come to find him, and Harry resigns himself to spending another evening alone. He retreats quickly when catching Mr Pettigrew’s eye across the room, fearing that the notary might ask him to dance upon seeing him without a partner, and he escapes into the hall, where people are talking in little groups.

Harry’s heart is heavy, and stubbornly, he resolves that, since he cannot dance with Mr Malfoy, he does not want to dance at all. And thus, he shall remain in the hall, where there is no chance of being asked to dance. Not that anyone would want to ask him. It is while walking past a group of officers that he hears one of them say Malfoy’s name.

“–called away to London unexpectedly this morning.”

“Truly? How unfortunate. It seemed to me he was looking forward to this ball.”

Another soldier snorts and shakes his head. “I imagine he would not have been called away so easily if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

This confirms Harry’s fears, and he wonders if, upon finding out that Mr Malfoy was amongst the officers invited to the ball by Mr Longbottom, Mr Snape has not decided to confront the man and forbid him to set foot in the house. It would be just like Mr Snape to do such a thing.

Just as this thought crosses his mind, Harry catches sight of Mr Snape across the hall. Their eyes meet for a second only before Harry turns to leave, escaping into the reception hall again, where a dance has just finished. He finds Ginny’s bright red hair in the crowd and pulls her to the side.

“Have you asked Mr Longbottom about Mr Malfoy?” he whispers into her ear. “He is not here tonight! I suspect they tried to prevent him from coming!”

“I have asked,” Ginny says in a low voice, taking both of Harry’s hands in hers, “but I fear it is _you_ who has been deceived, Harry. Mr Longbottom says that the two men have been at odds for a number of years now, but that, in fact, it does not only have to do with Mr Malfoy’s father. There appears to be more to the story. He did not tell me precisely what has happened between them, but he vouches for his friend’s honour and is perfectly certain that Mr Malfoy has wronged not only Mr Snape but a number of people. I am very sorry to say it, but according to Mr Longbottom, Mr Malfoy is by no means a respectable gentleman and has been very treacherous in the past. It appears to me that he has completely deserved to lose Mr Snape’s regard.”

Harry pulls his hands away, frowning at her. “Mr Malfoy told me he has never met Mr Longbottom.”

“No, they have never met. Mr Longbottom never saw him until the other day on the road. And he did not know who he was until Mr Snape revealed it to him.”

Harry shakes his head, throat tight and anger flaring in his chest. “Then if he has never met the man himself, this account is what he has received from Mr Snape alone,” he says stubbornly. “I have no doubt of Mr Longbottom’s sincerity, but I cannot be convinced by assurances only. Mr Longbottom’s defence of his friend is very respectable, but since he has learned everything from Mr Snape, I shall keep to my own opinion.”

He walks away before she can say any more, finding refuge deeper in the hall, in the shadows, where the light from the candelabras cannot reach him. He stands there for a time, fighting the urge to cry. How can life be so unfair? He was prepared for a spectacular evening, and once more Mr Snape has crushed for him all hope of dancing. The situation is not made any better by the sight of Hermione dancing with Cormac McLaggen, of all people, and looking quite delighted to be doing so.

“Mr Weasley,” a voice says next to him, and he turns to see one of the last people he wished to see – Miss Parkinson.

How she has found him in this place, so well hidden in the darkness behind the crowd, he does not know. She must have seen him talking to Ginny before, crossed the room, and followed him here.

“Miss Parkinson,” he says coldly, unable to find it in himself to be pleasant at the moment, but he is surprised when she puts a gentle hand on his arm, looking at him with softened eyes.

“Forgive me, but I hear you are quite taken with Mr Lucius Malfoy,” she whispers. “My cousin has told me he met you with him on the road, and your sister has been asking questions.”

“What of it?” Harry asks impatiently, unable to believe the nerve of her.

“Let me recommend you, as a friend, not to give blind confidence to his words,” Miss Parkinson says with a sincerity Harry has never witnessed from her before. “As to the matter of Severus treating him badly, it is perfectly false. On the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, even when Mr Malfoy has treated him, and many of his acquaintances, in a most infamous manner. I know very well that Severus is not the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear Mr Malfoy mentioned, and that though my cousin thought he could not avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was glad to find that Mr Malfoy has been kept from coming. His coming to town itself is a most insolent thing, and I wonder how he could dare to do it. I pity you, Mr Weasley, I do, for you have been so deceived. But considering Mr Malfoy’s habits, I would not have expected otherwise. As a friend, I only worry for your–”

Harry pulls his arm away swiftly. “What has ever given you the impression that we were friends?” he whispers fiercely, deeply offended now. “Do you think your behaviour towards me is what I accept coming from my friends? Do you think that I am an idiot not to notice the sneer on your face every time you’ve addressed me? I see nothing in this little display of yours but your own deceit or willingness to ignore Mr Snape’s malice. Excuse me.”

He walks away without another glance her way, boiling with anger.

* * *

A fortnight. A whole fortnight of waiting and hoping and mustering all the patience he possibly could, and when Severus _finally_ sees Harry Weasley again, he finds him, of all things, in Lucius Malfoy’s company.

He had not been expecting it. Prepared as Severus may be for any eventuality, for any twisted turn of fate, Lucius Malfoy’s arrival in Hogsmeade was not something he _ever_ could have predicted. He doubts the man knew of his presence here beforehand, and he doubts he knew of his interest in Harry Weasley at all. But of course, Lucius would be drawn to him. How could it be otherwise? Harry Weasley is just the sort of young man Lucius is in the habit of pursuing – a beautiful and clever Omega, unclaimed. He is everything Lucius would want. How satisfied the man must have been, Severus thinks bitterly, to stumble upon such a young man in this town, of all places. How smug Lucius must feel about himself now, to not only have managed to win Mr Weasley over, but also to have turned him against Severus even more than he was before.

Severus had such expectations for this night. He was so convinced that he would win the young Omega over at last. He should have known better than to be so confident, than to have such faith, than to believe _anything_ could go his way for once. No inquiry is necessary to understand that Lucius has already spoiled any hope he still had to get to know Mr Weasley better. God only knows what sort of stories his old _friend_ has told the young man. Severus was already at such a disadvantage before, but it was a disadvantage of his own making, that he thought possible to repair. But now Lucius’ lies surely have taken away any possibility of reconciliation, if the way Harry Weasley has been avoiding Severus all night, if the dark glares he has been throwing his way, are any indication. Severus has no intention of giving up, however. He is most determined to ask the young man to dance, even if he has to chase after him all evening. He needs to try and make amends. Whether successfully or not, he has to _try_.

At last, he spots the Omega in the reception hall, speaking with Dr Granger’s daughter. They are standing near the benches and seem to be having an argument. It is not in Severus’ nature to interrupt discussions, but if he does not act _now_ , if he waits for Mr Weasley to notice his approach, surely the young man will flee again.

“Mr Weasley,” he says as soon as he has reached them.

The two young people fall silent at once. Miss Granger’s cheeks are flushed. With anger, Severus suspects from the coldness of her gaze. And though he is curious what they could have been arguing about, he sets his sight on Mr Weasley and his alluring eyes. Even the aversion present in them is not enough to diminish their beauty.

“Mr Snape,” the young man says shortly, in a clipped tone that makes it obvious the interruption is wholly unwelcome.

“May I ask for the next dance?”

As soon as he has said the words, Severus is aware that all the people close to them have fallen silent. He would like to shout at them if he could, to reprimand them for making a spectacle of this, for behaving as if asking this beautiful young man for a dance is anything but natural, anything but unavoidable. But then it occurs to him that perhaps they are taken aback not by his asking Mr Weasley to dance in particular, but by his asking _anyone_ to dance at all – anyone other than Pansy or Astoria, that is.

“You may not,” the young man says shortly, perhaps a bit too loudly for Severus’ taste, and though he is not looking at them, Severus hears some of the bystanders scoff and laugh softly.

Fortunately, the music starts a moment later, and he is forced to move out of the way as the dancing takes up again. The constant movement of the crowd forces him to stand next to Mr Weasley, unable to move without cutting through the dancers and interrupting the cotillion.

Mr Weasley is looking straight ahead, carefully ignoring Severus’ presence, his jaw set and beautiful features scowling. Doubtless he is proud of having refused Severus in front of everyone, but he does not look it. He does not look anything but furious. But even having been so humiliated, and even being so disappointed in the outcome, Severus cannot find it in himself to be upset or angry with him.

The boy’s scent has changed, as expected. In close proximity like this, even with all these people around, Severus is unable to ignore it. It is nothing like the one of his heat, the one Severus swears he can still catch wisps of sometimes throughout the house, the one that clings to the soiled pillowcase he still hasn’t found the courage to get rid of. This scent is warm and pleasant. New but familiar at once. And so undeniably Mr Weasley’s that it brings a smile to Severus’ lips.

“I do hope this little display was agreeable to you,” he tells the young man softly. “I must admit I deserved it.”

Mr Weasley frowns. There is a hint of surprise, perhaps, but his jaw remains clenched when he replies, “It is very gracious of you to admit such a thing.”

And now what? What should Severus say next? Has his apology been accepted, or should he make his intentions clearer? _I beg your forgiveness for all the wrongs I have done._ Would that be appropriate? _Please do not believe a single word Lucius Malfoy has told you about me._ No, too direct, certainly. Severus must be more discreet.

“Do you often walk to Hogsmeade?” he finds himself asking. Yes, _this_ is discreet. Though perhaps not as much as he would have liked, but he _must_ speak before Mr Weasley walks away.

“Yes, I do,” the young man says at once. “I went there just the other day, as you know. I had just been making a new acquaintance when we met on the road.”

Severus stiffens in spite of himself. Of course, Mr Weasley is clever enough to read into his intentions. “Mr Malfoy is blessed with the natural ability of making friends,” he declares in a low voice. “Whether he is equally capable of retaining them is less certain.”

“Indeed,” Mr Weasley says coldly. “He has certainly been very unlucky to lose your friendship, and in a manner which _he_ is likely to suffer from all his life.”

If Mr Weasley wanted to say anything else, Severus does not hear it, for Dr Granger passes by them at that moment, smiling widely.

“What a pleasant evening this is, don’t you think, gentlemen?” he exclaims. When neither Severus nor Mr Weasley comments, the man shrugs and simply slips away through the crowd.

“Dr Granger’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking about,” Severus adds after a long moment, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction.

Mr Weasley scoffs. “Let me remind you then. We were talking of nothing at all. Dr Granger could not have interrupted two people who have less to say to each other. I cannot imagine what we could talk about next.”

Severus smiles without meaning to. Even cold and furious, Mr Weasley is beautiful and fascinating. How uncommon, how delightful for an Omega to be of such strong character, to be so fearless in an Alpha’s company.

“What of books?” he asks. “I understand you are very fond of those. As am I, as it happens. Perhaps we could talk about this next.”

“Oh, I am sure we have never read the same book. Or if we have, certainly not with the same opinion,” the young man says, his eyes never leading the dancers.

Severus shakes his head. He wants to laugh but does not dare, fearing it would infuriate the Omega further. “I am sorry you think so, but if that is the case, there can at least be a conversation. We may compare our different opinions.”

“I cannot talk of books in a ballroom,” Mr Weasley replies at once.

“You have done so before, on many occasions, as I have witnessed.”

Mr Weasley clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “Let me rephrase this then. I have no desire to talk of books _with you_. Or to talk of anything else, for that matter.”

Severus’ disappointment is sharp and more unexpected than he should allow it to be. It is like something cold has been poured down his back, like icy water seeping into his bones. He softens his voice even more, and tries to meet the young man’s gaze, but still Mr Weasley avoids his eyes.

“I was hoping you would understand,” he says gently, “that my previous offer to dance was an olive branch, an apology for all previous offences I may have caused.”

“I understand it,” Mr Weasley says slowly. “But I feel no desire to accept neither the dance nor the branch.”

Severus nods as politely as he can muster and clears his burning throat deeply before speaking. “Very well.”

He walks away, head down, humiliated to his very core. And yet he cannot be angry with Mr Weasley. All this, Severus brought on himself at the beginning. If only he had been kind that first night. If only he had left his pride and his fear behind and approached the Omega when first presented with the opportunity, he would have avoided all this. He would have avoided causing such pain and such shame to this young man who has never done anything to deserve it. He would have avoided for himself much trouble and distress as well. He felt the connection that night, the moment their eyes first met, but chose to ignore it. Not only to ignore it, but to ruin it, thoroughly and completely, with the horrible words he had spoken. As such, Severus is not allowed to complain or feel miserable for himself.

“Mr Snape?” a voice says behind him, chasing after him as he crosses the hall. “Mr Snape? Mr Snape?”

He turns so swiftly he nearly collides with the small, ugly man he saw with the Weasleys a few days prior. This man, this Mr Pettigrew, gasps in something like admiration and Severus allows him to stutter a few words about his uncle before losing interest and walking away, thinking the interaction rather impertinent and the man rather distasteful. He feels so terribly about his encounter with Mr Weasley that he cannot find it in himself to be mindful of how he acts for the rest of the evening, especially not with the likes of this strange man.

The rest of the evening is not any more agreeable. As always, Severus finds himself unable to stop staring at Mr Weasley across the room, whichever room they find themselves in, although it is much more painful at present, after his failed apology. All hope is lost now, that much is obvious. Whatever story Lucius has told the boy about him, there is no redeeming himself from. It is a small consolation, perhaps, that Lucius is not present tonight. Severus could not have borne the sight of them talking amicably, or dancing. He would not have had the strength to witness Mr Weasley falling for one of Lucius’ cunning traps. The only thought worse than losing all hope of getting to know the young man, is the thought that he may be another victim on Lucius’ long list of conquests.

When they sit down to supper, fate is cruel enough to sit them quite close to one another, and though Mr Weasley is frowning and silent throughout, his mother never stops talking once. Mrs Weasley has had quite a lot of wine and speaks animatedly to Mrs Granger of her expectations that her daughter is soon to marry Neville. Loudly and shrilly, she enumerates the advantages of the match – him being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living so close to them. And how it is such a comfort to think that her Ginny would remain close to home, as she and Harry have become quite attached of late and she would not wish this connection to be severed. She then talks some more of her daughter’s outstanding beauty, openly comparing it to that of all the young ladies she can think of. Her son is silent throughout, blushing bright red in embarrassment at his mother’s antics, and Severus must stop himself a few times from reprimanding the woman.

The rest of the evening is long and painful. Severus watches Mr Weasley try to evade that dreadful Mr Pettigrew most of the night, walking from one room to another in search of dark corners in which to hide. At the end of the night, the Weasleys are the last of the company to depart and, no doubt by a clever manoeuvre on Mrs Weasley’s part, must wait for their carriage at least a quarter of an hour after everyone else is gone. By the time they finally leave, the sun is very nearly rising, and Astoria is thoroughly exhausted, yawning and leaning heavily on Theodore. They retreat to bed as soon as the Weasleys’ carriage departs. Pansy, who has been silent for a time, only crosses her arms as she watches the carriage go, the shrill sounds of Mrs Weasley’s voice disappearing with it.

“Neville,” she says after a moment, throwing her cousin a stern but honest look. “You cannot be serious about this,” she adds, shaking her head, before walking away.

Neville sighs heavily, looking at the carriage disappearing in the trees. “She believes my affection for Miss Weasley is foolish,” he tells Severus once they are alone. “She believes the family is improper and shameful. Do you agree?”

Severus sighs as well, equally heavily. “I cannot pretend to have met many women as unpleasant as Mrs Weasley. And that her husband never intervenes when she is being appropriate has not escaped my notice.”

“Pansy maintains that Miss Weasley does not reciprocate my feelings,” Neville continues, “that pursuing her is futile, that she would refuse me if I were to propose and that it would be fortunate because marrying into this family would taint my reputation. Is that your opinion as well?”

“You have only just inherited your titles, Neville. You have no reputation to speak of as of yet,” Severus says with a smirk.

Neville scoffs, but his eyes are sad as they turn to the slowly rising sun. “I have not seen you dancing tonight. By that I understand your efforts with Mr Weasley have been in vain.”

“They have,” he admits. “And I believe they shall be my last.”

“I have never known you to give up so easily, Severus.”

“It is not easily,” he says softly. “Certainly not.” He is silent for a time, suddenly conscious of how terribly, terribly tired he is. “A good man should be willing to admit defeat, and to accept it,” he adds. “Perhaps you should accept to it too.”

He retires to bed, leaving Neville alone to his thoughts, as sunlight breaks through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- _Paradise Lost_ is an epic poem of religious themes written by John Milton and published in 1667. It's centred around the biblical story of temptation of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from the Garden of Eden.
> 
> \- As I mentioned before, the story takes place during a period of peace in the Napoleonic wars. With all my research, I couldn't exactly find any details about the militia during this exact period. It is unclear whether it would still be present in the countryside or whether it would be disbanded by this point. I did read that the British did not sign the treaty of Fontainebleau and were dubious that the fighting was really over, even after Napoleon's exile, so because of this, and for the purpose of this story, the militia is still around even if the fighting is done.


	9. resignation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another lengthy chapter for you all. Somehow, I managed to get all this out right before I need to desperately start studying for my finals. I hope you will enjoy it. There is so much going on in this chapter, and I am excited to share it with you all. Feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

* * *

**\- 9 -**

**resignation**

* * *

RESIGNATION, _s_. [ _résignation_ , Fr.]

  1. The act of resigning or giving up a claim or possession.
  2. Submission; unresisting acquiescence.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

Harry sets his quill down, letting out a deep sigh of relief. His hand hurts and he is starving, but Charlie’s letter is completed at last, although this must be at least his fifth attempt to write it. For hours, he has been sitting here at the desk, beginning the letter, changing his mind, and starting all over again, unable to decide what to say or how to phrase it. Most of all, it was difficult to decide _how much_ to say. If he were to write _everything_ that weighs on his mind, if he were to relate for his brother every single event that occurred since that fateful day when Mr Longbottom and his guests arrived in Hogsmeade, he would never be able to finish this letter.

He reads it over quickly.

_Hogsmeade_   
_5 September 1814_

_Dear Charlie,_

_So much has happened since I last wrote that I don’t quite know where to begin telling you about it all. Mr Longbottom arrived at the start of August to see his father’s estate, and finding himself content with it, as well as with the town, has decided to settle here. He is very gentlemanly, very kind and gallant, and Ginny is very much taken with him. She has told me so herself, though she remains reserved in his company. Fortunately, I am certain that he returns her affections. I see much fondness in his eyes when he looks at her. As for Mamma, she is delighted that her plan to introduce them was so successful and is determined to see them married before long. She hardly ever talks of anything else. There was a ball only yesterday at Longbottom Manor, which everyone in town attended. Mamma thoroughly embarrassed us by drinking too much wine and talking loudly, and then insisted that we stay until the very end. Everyone is so exhausted today that we all slept late. It is now past midday and breakfast has not yet been served._

_Mr Longbottom is accompanied by his cousin, Miss Parkinson, who is to take care of his house. She is a most elegant young lady but is to me extremely dislikeable. She is haughty and judgmental and believes herself better than everyone. As expected, Ginny is too blinded by her affections for Mr Longbottom to notice his cousin’s true nature. Visiting him for a time is another of his cousins, Mrs Nott, along with her husband. Mrs Nott is quite the opposite of Miss Parkinson. We share a love of theatre and books, and I believe I have found a friend in her._

_The most unfortunate of Mr Longbottom’s visitors, however, is Mr Snape from Derbyshire. He is a more distant relative and has raised Mr Longbottom from a young age after the death of his grandmother. While the others are about my age, Mr Snape appears at least fifteen years older, and is an Alpha. He is rumoured to be quite rich and although at first glance he seems gallant, further observation proves him to be surpassing even Miss Parkinson in pride. He regards the town and everyone in it with marked disdain and it has been revealed to me that he is not to be trusted and has wronged many of his acquaintances. I believe you would find him very unpleasant as well. He fancies himself better than everyone because of his fortune and status. Last month, Ginny was taken ill while visiting the manor, and knowing how terrible it must have been for her to be amongst strangers, I took it upon myself to stay at her bedside. During that time, I was better acquainted with Mr Longbottom and his guests, and I can confidently say that scarcely in my life have I met a more disagreeable man than Mr Snape._

_We have a guest at The Burrow presently as well, whom Father has invited from London. The reason for his presence can only be explained by the strangest and most unexpected turn of events, which I am convinced would be impossible to relate at length in a letter. As such, I will await your return to offer you all the details, hoping your curiosity will prompt you to recover faster. Simply know that he is a notary who manages my late parents’ estate, which consists of an inheritance. Even writing about it feels outrageous to me, but there seems to be no doubt that these people were truly my parents and this notary, Mr Pettigrew, has been searching for me for some years now. Were I to marry, he tells me I would inherit a large property in Cornwall and nearly eight thousand a year, which is to me completely ridiculous to imagine. But as I have no intention to marry, these conditions are of no concern to me. Mr Pettigrew is the oddest man. If you could only meet him. How strange and at once distasteful and fascinating he is. I have never met his like before. He reminds me of a small rodent that sneaks around greedily looking for scraps. I am quite wary of him and am impatient to see him gone, for he is overstaying his welcome. Even Father cannot wait for him to depart, as the man is in the habit of sitting with him in the study and talking constantly while he tries to read._

_As you can see, there has been no lack of interesting characters around Hogsmeade of late. The militia has been in town for a week or so, and I have made the acquaintance of a very gallant lieutenant, Mr Malfoy of Wiltshire. I believe you would like him. I have scarcely met anyone with such ease of conversation. He is very charming and amusing. He does not consider himself with serious importance like some men of his situation do. He is an Alpha, and I can already see you frowning and begging me to be cautious, but as opposed to Mr Snape, Mr Malfoy is very kind. In fact, when I first met him, he came to my rescue when Cormac McLaggen cornered me in town. Please do not worry. It was simply an unpleasant encounter. I am unhurt and untroubled by it, I assure you. Mr Malfoy remained by my side until we left town to ensure that Cormac would not return. Upon hearing what happened, Father insisted on inviting him to supper and we had a most pleasant evening. I do hope you return before the militia departs, so that you have a chance to meet Mr Malfoy for yourself. When he came for supper, he asked me for the first two dances at Mr Longbottom’s ball, but unfortunately, was unable to attend. I will admit to you I was very disappointed. I was so looking forward to dancing with him. I am convinced he must be a very good dancer._

_You cannot possibly know how rejoiced I am to hear that you can now leave your bed. This can only mean that you will come home soon. I am glad that you made a friend. I cannot bear to think about you being lonely and without company so far away from home. I miss you terribly._

_Love,_   
_Harry_

He is still not quite satisfied with the letter, but it will have to do. Perhaps he should have waited a little, let his thoughts form, his ideas take better shape, before writing. But he so desperately wants to speak to Charlie, to try and explain how he feels to the one person who would listen with no judgement and help him understand his own feelings, that it physically hurts to not be able to, and to have to settle for writing a letter. Some things, it seems, simply cannot be contained in a letter, cannot be expressed with written words. They require a voice and a presence. They require a direct gaze and a contact. Soft words and the holding of hands, perhaps. Some hopes and fears can only be spoken, and thus it is useless to try to write about them.

Harry sighs again, pours pounce on the letter, folds and seals it carefully. He does not have the strength nor the desire to walk to town today to post it, however. It will have to wait another day. He sits by the window, staring out at the sunlit countryside, and he frowns. If only the sky were grim and cloudy today, he thinks, to better reflect his current mood.

His disappointment at not seeing Mr Malfoy yesterday is still raw, as if he had swallowed askew and something was stuck in his throat. He was _so_ looking forward to finally dancing, to showing everyone that he could be desirable, that he was worthy of attention. And the thought of dancing with a man such as Mr Malfoy was nearly overwhelming. Harry should have known it was too good to be true. This sort of thing happens in books, not in reality, and certainly not to _him_. Reality is disappointing and has no regard for our wishes or hopes. It does what it wants. And yet, Harry’s wish was not so capricious, was it? Two dances with Mr Malfoy, that was not such a ridiculous demand. And he could have done with just one. Yes, _one_ dance would have been enough. And yet, fate had decided to take Mr Malfoy away, and instead had presented him with Mr Snape.

Harry had been so angry and irritated that he had not given Mr Snape’s proposal much thought. He had been too upset at the sight of Hermione dancing with Cormac, and even more so at her insisting that there was absolutely nothing wrong with this. He had been too disappointed by Mr Malfoy’s absence – for which he blamed Mr Snape, as anyone would – to fully realise what was happening. And now that he is alone in his bedroom, far away from the crowded reception hall of Longbottom Manor, from the chatter and the laughter and all the officers who were _not_ Mr Malfoy, Harry thinks back on it. Hours later, with a clearer mind and his anger diminished, he allows himself to recall the encounter with Mr Snape, and he feels shame.

But _why_ should he be ashamed of having refused Mr Snape’s offer and then later, his apology? Why, after all Mr Snape has done – speaking so cruelly that first night, regarding him so rudely every time they met afterwards, causing his first heat – should _Harry_ be the one to feel guilty? Any other Omega in his right mind would have refused the man, in Harry’s opinion. Though perhaps not… How could he know how another Omega would have reacted in such a situation? Perhaps another would have smiled softly and forgiven everything and allowed Mr Snape to take his _dainty_ hand. The thought that Mr Snape had perhaps expected him to react in such a way is maddening. But then Harry remembers how the onlookers snorted and laughed quietly when he rebuked the Alpha, and he feels satisfaction. And then he remembers the softness of the man’s voice afterwards, the modesty in it when he admitted, to Harry’s greatest surprise, that he had deserved such a treatment. And _then_ he feels the shame. It is truly incomprehensible.

The offer to dance was, the man had said, _an apology for all previous offences I may have caused_.

Harry has been repeating these words over and over in his head. He had long hoped to hear their like from Mr Snape. He had considered before that if the man would only apologise, if the Alpha admitted that he had acted wrongly and expressed his regret openly, as any gentleman should, that he could begin to forgive him. Yes, he had thought so, until he met Mr Malfoy and his suspicions concerning Mr Snape’s true nature were confirmed. Then Mr Malfoy had unveiled the extent of his old friend’s wickedness with such revelations as Harry could not have imagined possible. So _why_ does he still feel shame and guilt at having treated the man so, at having refused him? Why should he question his treatment of Mr Snape when the man has treated his friends so vilely?

Perhaps it is nothing but Harry’s anger and disappointment clouding his judgment, but he cannot help wondering if Mr Malfoy is truly trustworthy. He _did_ claim he would attend the ball and yet did not. He _did_ say Mr Snape’s presence would not deter him from remaining in town and yet he allowed himself to be called away. Should his words be believed without question? Is Harry being deceived just like Mr Malfoy himself was by Mr Snape? Perhaps he should be warier of the charming lieutenant from now on…

When the kitchen bell rings and Harry comes downstairs, he finds the dining room table filled with a strange combination of breakfast and dinner food. His mother looks worse for wear, and sips at her tea with a furrowed brow, groaning and complaining of a painful headache. She scolds him for greeting her too loudly. Ginny looks perfectly content and she smiles at him brightly when he sits across from her, but their father is absent, his spot at the table empty. He must have eaten already, or he is hiding from Mr Pettigrew, who has yet to come down.

When the notary finally arrives, Harry pretends not to notice and continues to eat. Mr Pettigrew stands there, next to the table, for a long moment. He looks even more agitated than usual, if such a thing is even possible.

“Mrs Weasley?” he mumbles nervously. “I was hoping… um… if it would not trouble you… that I… um… might solicit… a private audience with… with Mr Harry this morning…”

Harry’s jaw clenches around his mouthful of bread and he pauses, cold chills erupting along his spine. _Oh no… No, no, no, no…_

His mother perks up at once. “Oh! Oh! Yes, certainly!” she cries joyfully, seemingly forgetting all about her dreadful headache. “Harry would be very happy to hear whatever you have to say. Ginny, come! Mr Pettigrew would like a private audience with Harry.”

“Wait! Wait!” Harry protests as she grabs Ginny by the arm and drags her out of her seat. “There is nothing Mr Pettigrew has to say to me that you can’t hear!”

“Nonsense, Harry. Stay where you are! _Don’t you dare!_ ” she hisses threateningly when he stands from his chair. “Ginny, dear. Come with me.”

“Mamma, you cannot be–” Ginny gasps, trying to free herself from the grip.

“ _Now!_ ”

Harry watches in horror as his mother winks at Mr Pettigrew, drags Ginny out of the room, and shuts the door before he can even try to escape. There is a terrible pause of embarrassment, and Harry can only stare at Mr Pettigrew, astonished, helpless.

“Mr Pettigrew,” he mumbles helplessly, “please do not say what I suspect you are about to say.”

The man clears his throat decidedly. “Mr Harry… be assured that your… um… reticence and modesty rather add to your… perfection. You would not have caught my eye so… um… had there not been this unwillingness… to attract attention, which is… um… part of your nature.” He stops, clears his throat again. “I have no doubt my attentions have been too marked to be unknown,” he continues in a suddenly very eloquent way that speaks of much preparation. “Almost as soon as I entered this house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am overwhelmed by my feelings, I would state my reasons for asking for your hand.”

The very idea of what Mr Pettigrew could possibly look like when overwhelmed by his feelings would make Harry laugh if the situation were not so horrible.

“Firstly,” the man says, staring intensely at Harry with his small, watery eyes, “it is the duty of any respectable gentleman to set an example by engaging in matrimony. Secondly, I am convinced that your presence by my side would add greatly to my happiness and in return I am determined to add to your own happiness. Thirdly, it came to my attention that you are quite convinced of there being no hope in coming into possession of the inheritance your parents have left you. If we were to marry–”

“Please don’t–”

“–it would benefit us both. In fact, after speaking to your mother, I have no doubt such an alliance would benefit everyone. Your mother worries you shall never marry, and I fear the thought of spending my life alone. As for your fear or not receiving your inheritance properly, as you believe it would go to your husband, we can arrange a contract in which a certain amount of the fortune would be given you in allowance yearly.”

Harry doubts he has ever been so speechless in his life before. This must be the worst marriage proposal to have ever been uttered. Mr Pettigrew speaks flatly and monotonously, enunciating carefully the words he has memorised. If the proposal were not made to him, Harry would be crying with laughter. Instead, he is mortified.

“Having thus illustrated all the good that would come of our union,” Mr Pettigrew continues as Harry stares at him fearfully, “it remains for me now to assure you, in the most animated language, of the violence of my affection. In my life, I have never met anyone of such beauty as the one you possess. Never has anyone made such a pleasant impression upon me as you have. I was at once captivated by the grace of your appearance, as well as your intelligence and your wisdom. And, as I know ladies and Omegas rather delight in compliments, you will hear so every day from my mouth once we are married–”

Harry can stay silent no longer. A strange sort of strangled cry escapes from his throat before he finds his voice. “You are too hasty, Mr Pettigrew! I have given no answer! Let me save you the trouble of reciting the rest of your little speech. Accept my thanks for your compliments, but it is _impossible_ for me to do anything other than decline your proposal.”

For an instant, Mr Pettigrew seems genuinely taken aback, but he continues monotonously, having obviously considered such a turn of events and prepared an appropriate reply. “I know it is not unusual, for young ladies and Omegas who don’t wish to seem too eager, to first reject the advances of the man they secretly mean to accept, and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second of even a third time, for the lady or the Omega wishes to ascertain themselves of the determination of the suitor. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, Mr Harry. And, as I am a stubborn man, I shall repeat my proposal as many times as it suits you and hope to lead you to the altar before long.”

Harry feels anger shoot through him. “Mr Pettigrew, I am perfectly serious! This hope of yours is misplaced! I assure you I am not one of those Omegas you speak of, if such Omegas there _are_ , who would risk their happiness on the chance of being asked numerous times! I could not possibly make you happy, and I am convinced _you_ could not make me happy either!”

“As it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made to you,” the notary continues, “since you and your father refuse to make it known of the fortune that could belong to your husband upon marriage, which would certainly bring you a number of offers, and since this town in itself lacks in possible suitors, I strongly urge you to accept my proposal.”

“I strongly refuse!” Harry retorts.

“I know I am not particularly learned nor handsome, but it does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance. I believe I could offer you a highly desirable life. I am perhaps not the ideal Alpha you would hope for, but having lived here all your life, you do not know much of Alphas’ true expectations, Mr Harry. Having long resided in London, I have often witnessed the cruelty with which Alphas treat their Omegas. I beg you believe me that I would never hurt you, if that is your fear, for I am but a harmless Beta. I vow to offer you safety and comfort, and to care and love any child that will come of our union.”

Harry makes a choking noise, which Mr Pettigrew ignores.

“And if you think that it would be frowned upon for me, as a Beta, to take a male Omega for a husband, I would like you to be assured that in London, such a thing is more common and accepted, and I fear not that my reputation would suffer from marrying you. Having said all this, and spoken from the heart, Mr Harry, may I have the honour of obtaining your hand?”

“I never…” Harry can only mumble, more thoroughly humiliated and mortified than he has ever been in his life before. “How dare you say such… I… I would _never_ marry you. Not in a hundred years…”

But Mr Pettigrew does not look discouraged in the least. “I must conclude that you simply wish to increase my love by refusing me, according to the usual practice of Omegas–”

“ _Sir!_ ” Harry nearly shouts, finding his voice and his anger again and standing up so abruptly his chair nearly falls over. “I am _not_ the sort to needlessly torment a man. And I am positively angered that you would think such a thing of me. Please understand I cannot accept you! _I will not!_ Do _not_ insist!”

He rushes out of the room, bumping into his mother, who was of course standing on the other side of the dining room door, listening in. Face surely flushed with fury, Harry ignores her and runs straight out of the house as she calls out after him.

“Harry! You foolish, headstrong child! Come back here at once and accept the proposal HARRY! Come back here this instant! Arthur! Arthur!”

As she calls after his father to come to the rescue, Harry runs as fast as he can across the footbridge and down the path leading to his field, where it is safe, where he can hide. He is even more furious at his mother than he is at Mr Pettigrew. How could she scheme with this man? And how could she ever think that Harry marrying him would result in anything good? Is she so blinded by the possibility of him inheriting a fortune that she would go so far as giving him away to such a despicable, disgusting man?

Harry stops at the fence, taking deep breaths, trying to calm the furious pounding of his heart. From this distance, he can hear nothing, no shouting coming from the house. Only the birds and the cicadas and the sound of rushing water from the creek nearby. It does not take long, however, for the sound of his mother’s shrill voice to reach him, and he turns to see both his parents approaching.

“Leave me alone!” he warns.

His mother’s face is red and furious, her eyes filled with tears of anger. “Make him see reason! Do something, Arthur!” she shouts.

“I understand Mr Pettigrew has made you an offer of marriage,” his father begins.

Harry’s voice catches in his throat at the sight of his impassive face. “Papa… please don’t make me do it.”

“And your mother insists that you accept.”

“Do you not understand, you idiot child?” she cries out accusingly. “Mr Pettigrew may not be handsome, but he is a humble, respectable man. And he is a Beta! He would keep you _safe_! You could have your parents’ money and live in their beautiful house–”

“Papa, please…” Harry repeats, ignoring her and looking only to his father as she rambles on desperately.

“Lords know why, but he is fond of you! And he finds you charming, even in spite of your insolence! Do you see other gentlemen lining up to ask for your hand? Do you? You _will_ accept the proposal, or I will never speak to you again!” she threatens furiously.

There is a heavy pause, and Harry’s eyes fill with tears. “Papa…” he says weakly.

His father sighs. “It seems that we are at an impasse, Harry,” he announces in a steady voice. “If you do not marry Mr Pettigrew, your mother says will never speak to you again.”

“I will not!” she repeats.

“And if you _do_ marry him, _I_ shall never speak to you again.”

“Oh no! NO!” Mrs Weasley cries, half fury, half disbelief, hitting her husband roughly on the shoulder. “Arthur! NO!”

Mr Weasley turns to her moodily. “Have you lost reason, Molly? Have you not _seen_ the man?”

“He can have his inheritance if he marries–” she protests.

“No amount of money in the world can justify _anyone_ marrying that horrible man.”

“Ungrateful!” she cries shrilly as she storms away, sobbing, stomping down the overgrown path. “Ungrateful! The both of you! I will never speak to you again! The both of you! Nobody knows what I must suffer! My poor nerves…”

Harry rushes to embrace his father. “Thank you, Papa…” he gasps through his tears, fear still pulsing through him so strongly he is shivering with it.

Mr Weasley holds him tightly. “My boy,” he mumbles. “I swear to you that you will never be forced to marry unless you want to.”

“And if I never want to?” Harry asks hesitantly, pulling away.

His father hums in contemplation, then gently pats Harry’s wet cheek. “Then you will not marry. And you shall remain home with me and keep me company until I am an old man. Which is just as well,” he adds with a smile. “Come now. Let us see that your mother does not throw herself in the river out of spite.”

As it turns out, one blessing came from Harry’s refusal, that of Mr Pettigrew’s sudden desire to leave The Burrow. He is already packing by the time they return, and Hagrid is readying the carriage in order to take him into town, where he can catch a coach back to London. They find Mrs Weasley in the parlour with Ginny, crying her eyes out.

“Ah, here he comes!” she exclaims when Harry enters. “Here he comes, looking as unconcerned as can be! I tell you, Harry! I tell you,” she adds threateningly, “that if you go on refusing every offer of marriage in this manner, you will _never_ get a husband at all! Never!”

“Molly,” Mr Weasley attempts.

“Good. I don’t _want_ a husband,” Harry says stubbornly, but still he must struggle to keep new tears at bay at the sight of his mother in such a state.

“I am warning you that I am done with you from this very day!” she cries out.

“Mamma,” Ginny says this time, looking truly distraught.

“I am done with you from this very day! I told you that I will never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word! I have no pleasure in talking to ungrateful children! Not that I have much pleasure in talking to anybody!” she exclaims before bursting into tears again.

Exhausted and saddened, still furious at his mother and yet ashamed of making her cry so, Harry retreats to his room, where he curls up on his bed with a purring Hedwig. He can hear his parents arguing in the parlour, raised and reproachful voices, which he cannot quite ignore. A short while later, Ginny comes by with some cake that she stole from the kitchen and they sit on the floor to eat it. Harry remains silent. If he tries to speak, he will cry.

“She did not mean what she said. You know that,” his sister says softly. “She did not mean it. She will soon forget about all it.”

The next day, Mrs Weasley is already in a better mood, although her gaze darkens with disappointment every time it settles on Harry. She does not speak to him at all throughout breakfast, but he feels relief at the certainty that this is but temporary, for she does not outrightly ignore his presence. When she leaves the dining room, she runs her fingers through his hair briefly, and a heavy weight lifts from his shoulders. He understands that this tender gesture is as close to an apology as he will get.

He finds refuge in his father’s study afterwards, as he did as a child whenever he wished to avoid confrontation of any sort, although he does not hide underneath the desk anymore. Mr Weasley is seated comfortably by the window, undoubtedly enjoying the silence and the privacy of the room now that Mr Pettigrew has taken his leave. Harry takes the vacant armchair opposite his, and they sit quietly for a time.

“Despite what you may think, your mother is not blind to Mr Pettigrew’s flaws,” Mr Weasley begins, staring absently at the pouring rain outside. “She knows that he is far from handsome, that he is ungainly and strange. But she believes him simple and harmless. She believes such a man, as unrefined as he may appear to you, would make a good husband, for with him, you would be on more equal ground.”

“Equal ground?” Harry repeats, confused and a bit outraged.

“She is afraid for you, Harry. She fears having you fall into the clutches of a powerful, treacherous Alpha who would take advantage of you,” Mr Weasley explains softly. “She is terrified of this. It was her hope that Mr Pettigrew would protect you from such a fate.”

Harry stares at his father with incredulity. “Does she _truly_ believe I would ever want to marry such an Alpha, that I would be so blinded and let myself be duped by someone of ill intentions?”

His father shakes his head. “You are clever, Harry. You truly are. And you have an understanding of people’s characters that is unique and admirable and rarely found in someone your age. But you are human, and like everyone else, you can be deceived. And matters of the heart are the most deceitful of all.”

Harry laughs. “Even if I _were_ to fall madly in love with such a powerful, treacherous Alpha, as you say, you would never let me fall into his clutches.”

“I would like to believe so,” Mr Weasley says pensively. “I would like to believe I could prevent such a thing and keep you out of harm’s way. But if you came to see me, begging me to allow it, I don’t know if I could refuse you this marriage, Harry.”

Harry considers this for a moment. “I think you could.”

His father chuckles. “You underestimate my affection for you. And you underestimate just how stubborn you can be when you have your mind set on something. It is a wonder you are not _truly_ your mother’s son,” he adds with a grin at Harry’s reproachful glance. “Besides, in your stubborn ways, if I _were_ to refuse, you would never speak to me again. Or, worse yet, you would run away with this hypothetical Alpha.”

Harry shakes his head. “I wouldn’t. I would never run away from home, or from you. No matter how handsome the Alpha,” he adds with a grin.

Mr Weasley scoffs. He smiles back, but his voice is serious. “Matters of the heart are not only deceitful, they are also unpredictable.”

Harry thinks this over for a moment. “I will never let my heart get away from me in such a way,” he says with certainty. “Do you mistrust me so?”

Mr Weasley looks at him tenderly. “I do not mistrust you. And neither does your mother. It is others that we mistrust. But perhaps you have not seen enough of the world to fully understand this fear. And yes, perhaps this is our fault.”

Harry does not know what to say to this, and so he remains silent, watching the rain. His father is also quiet for a time, and he sighs heavily before speaking again.

“Either way, no matter our fears, we will not be the sort of parents to force you into an unwanted marriage for our own peace of mind, giving no regard to your happiness. This, I have made clear to your mother. And with this, she ultimately agreed. But you know how she hates admitting her own mistakes,” he adds more lightly. “Give her time, and all will be forgotten.”

Harry only nods, more relieved than ever. As used as he is to arguments with his mother, he could not bear it if she were to remain upset at him for more than a few days.

“But promise me that you will be cautious, Harry,” his father adds. “Promise me that you will always trust your instincts.”

“I promise, Papa.” Harry pauses, then he smiles. “Charlie says that to me. All the time. _Trust your instincts, Harry_ ,” he mimics, in a surprisingly good imitation of Charlie’s voice.

Mr Weasley laughs fondly. “Your brother is cleverer than he lets on.”

“He is,” Harry says. Then he adds, his heart heavy, “I miss him.”

His father pats his hand in a comforting way. “So do I.”

They sit and stare at the rain for a long time afterwards, neither of them speaking.

The downpour lasts two days, and as soon as the sun comes out, Harry is on his way to town, bright and early, to post Charlie’s letter. The main road is teeming with officers still, but Harry pays them no mind. He has every intention to drop the letter off at the postal counter as fast as possible and then to walk straight to his field for a long day of quiet reading away from the house. After spending two long, rainy days trapped indoors with no way to avoid his mother’s reproachful glances, he is in dire need of some distance. There is a Bathilda Bagshot book tucked away in his pocket, ready for the occasion. He has already read this one before, but he is in a mood for quaint and predictable reading of late. He has had quite enough of the unexpected for now.

This time, when he leaves the general store, Harry is not alarmed by the Alpha waiting for him outside. Firstly, because he picked up on the scent even before he opened the door – for which he must admit he is quite proud of himself. And secondly, because this time it is not Cormac but Mr Malfoy.

Even after telling himself that he should be wary of the man, that he should not let his hopes up again, that he should perhaps keep his distance so as not to be disappointed once more, Harry feels his face flush at the sight of the Alpha standing there, smiling amicably at him.

“Mr Weasley,” Mr Malfoy says with a polite bow, “I wondered if I could have the pleasure of walking you home once you have finished your business in town. Is your sister here as well? And the delightful Mr Pettigrew?” he asks with a slight grin.

“I am alone today,” Harry says at once, perhaps a little more brusquely than he means to. “My sister is not accompanying me,” he adds in a milder tone. “And Mr Pettigrew has returned to London.”

Mr Malfoy nods, his gaze softening. “Just as well. In truth, I was hoping you would allow me to have a word with you in private on the way.”

He looks so handsome in the sunlight, his eyes kind and features gentle. Harry nods, his mouth dry all of a sudden. “I was merely posting a letter and have no other business to attend to. You may walk me home if you wish.”

They walk silently for a time, and Harry slips his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling, uncaring that it may seem to Mr Malfoy an ungainly gesture, for the man always walks so gracefully. It is only when they are a good distance from town that the officer finally speaks.

“You do not seem angry with me, Mr Weasley, and of that I am more relieved than you know. I had feared that, since last we met, some of the rumours Mr Snape has no doubt been spreading about me might have reached you and taken root. I cannot begin to imagine what sort of lies he has told his company since he became aware of my presence in town.”

Harry shakes his head. “I assure you I would never let any of Mr Snape’s words take root in my mind,” he says firmly, thinking back on all the trouble he has allowed the other Alpha to cause him since that very first night. “My opinion of him has not changed since last we met.”

“Then please allow me to ask your forgiveness for breaking my word and not attending Mr Longbottom's ball. I had every intention to attend, I assure you, and I was most sincere when I requested those two dances from you. I quite looked forward to them, in truth.” Mr Malfoy falls silent then, looking troubled, as if searching for words.

“I understand you were called away to London,” Harry says at last, equally troubled by the man’s regret and his honest but hesitant manner. “I am certain it was not to be avoided.”

Mr Malfoy sighs heavily, shaking his head. “I wish it were so. But I would acknowledge to you, for you are familiar with my situation, that my absence was, in fact, self-imposed. I _was_ called away to London,” he explains, “although it was nothing so urgent that it could not have waited a few days. It would have been perfectly acceptable for me to attend the ball and leave for London the following day. And _that_ is what my plans were until the day arrived. I found, as the time drew nearer, that I had better not meet Mr Snape after all, particularly not at his friend’s residence.” He pauses for a moment, pensively. “If I found the idea of being in the same house with him for so many hours more than I could bear, it is because I feared that, if I were to attend, a violent dispute might inevitably occur.”

He pauses again, for quite some time, and then looks directly at Harry, their eyes meeting at once.

“In truth, I feared that you, of all people, would witness such a confrontation, and I could not bear the thought. I feared that my anger might get the best of me when trapped with Mr Snape in such close quarters, and I would not have it. Not in your presence, Mr Weasley. I would not have you think less of me,” he finishes softly.

Harry stops walking, and before he knows it, one of his hands has found Mr Malfoy’s arm in a reassuring touch. The fabric of the man’s coat is soft under his fingertips, warmed by the sunlight. “I would not have thought any less of you,” he protests. “After all the trouble Mr Snape has caused you, it would only be natural for you to be angered in his presence. In fact, when you revealed to me what he had done to your father, I was surprised by your countenance upon meeting him on the road. Had _I_ been in your situation, I would not have been so courteous.”

To Harry’s surprise, Mr Malfoy laughs fondly, and then he puts his own hand on top of Harry’s, moving it gently so that Harry finds himself holding onto his arm as they continue their walk. “I have no doubt of this,” Mr Malfoy says gently. “You are much too honest to hide your true feelings with such duplicity. I doubt I have ever met a young man as fearless as you are.”

Harry does not reply, troubled by the touch, by the feel of Mr Malfoy’s hand on top of his own, by the man’s strong arm underneath. _I am not fearless_ , he wants to say. _I am terrified_.

“Forgive me if this was untoward,” Mr Malfoy adds a moment later.

“No, no, it was not,” Harry says in a rush. “It was… very kind of you to say.”

They come to a halt on the small bridge where the road crosses over the river, and Harry lets Mr Malfoy lead him to the side, near the water, where they stop in contemplation of a few ducks swimming around lazily.

“I am afraid I have not been entirely truthful to you about the extent of Mr Snape’s betrayal,” Mr Malfoy reveals.

Harry frowns. “How so?”

“You see, in addition to having deceived my father, Mr Snape has wronged me again afterwards, quite deeply, in a way that is most painful to recall. Some years ago, I made the acquaintance of a young Omega and I found myself most infatuated with him, I am not afraid to admit it. And he was, I believe, infatuated in return. He came from a most noble family, and although he was the youngest son, I knew I needed to be careful in asking for his hand. My father had been on good terms with his father, but I had already lost the estate and my reputation was suffering greatly. I spoke with the young man and we agreed that I needed to clear my name before approaching his father with my request. I was called away on duty and promised to propose marriage upon my return. He said he would wait for me.” Mr Malfoy stops again, lost in thought. “As it happens, Mr Snape was close to the family through his uncle. How he came to be aware of my intentions, I know not, nor how he proceeded exactly. I had only just made lieutenant when I heard of what had happened to my beloved.”

“What happened to him?” Harry asks when the man stops talking.

“They say he ran away with Mr Snape,” Mr Malfoy says softly, in a near whisper, “but I refuse to believe it. That he was lied to, or that he was deceived, _this_ I would believe. That Mr Snape took him away against his will, I would also believe, but _not_ that he went willingly. Never. He said he would wait for me, and I know he meant it. He _meant_ it,” he repeats, as if to convince himself. “He said he would wait for me… and I never saw him again.” Mr Malfoy’s voice breaks near the end, and he trails off, looking absently at the river.

“I… I am sorry,” is all Harry can find in himself to say, saddened and horrified.

“Last I heard, his father disowned him, and he now lives in shame, hiding away. Hiding or being kept away, I know not. He is shunned and despised by all for living with an Alpha, unmarried. He is alone, without money or name. And yet no one frowns on Mr Snape for what he has done. For taking my Julian away.”

 _Julian_. Harry has heard the name before, when he was at Longbottom Manor. Someone asked Mr Snape if the letter he was writing was meant for Julian. Harry had wanted to ask who this person was but thought this unimportant. He never would have thought that this Julian could be _living_ with Mr Snape, could be an Omega, could have been stolen away…

“And so,” Mr Malfoy continues, “I feared that if I were to attend the ball, upon seeing Mr Snape, that I would not be able to stop myself from confronting him, that I might let my emotions get the best of me. As such, I decided it would be best not to attend. I meant to send a note for you beforehand, to inform you of my absence, but I could not find it in me to lie to you about being called to London. And I found myself too ashamed to explain the truth of my situation. Afterwards, I meant to send a note of apology, but still I was ashamed to find myself in such a way. Then, I meant to visit but found I could not… I am truly a pitiful man, as you can see.”

“No, you are not pitiful, Mr Malfoy. I understand, truly. And I accept your apology.”

Mr Malfoy sighs, then his lips curl into a gentle smile. “I find myself most relieved then. And I truly mourn the loss of those two dances. Although I am certain you did not lack in partners that night.”

Harry avoids his gaze, turning back to the water. He means to acquiesce, but his silence speaks for itself.

Mr Malfoy’s voice softens. “ _Small towns, small minds_ , as my father used to say. If you were to visit London, you would find the world is not quite the same. But perhaps it is better you do not. London is different in good and bad ways equally. And this place, I must admit, is quite beautiful.” He contemplates the river for a time in silence, then clears his throat. “Unfortunately, I have been called away to London once again. However long this time, I know not. I am afraid I cannot postpone it. And I am deeply saddened by it, for I had hoped to get those two dances at this week’s assembly. In the meantime, I wondered if I may write to you? London is lonely for a man of my situation, as you can imagine, and it would please me greatly to be able to write to you. As I understand, you are also fond of letters.”

Harry grins, his heart fluttering anew. “I am, yes. And I would gladly receive yours, Mr Malfoy.”

The Alpha smiles so brightly that Harry has to look away to hide his blush. “Then you find me most rejoiced. The thought alone makes my stay in London more bearable already. Come, let us continue on our way,” he announces, placing Harry’s hand on his arm once more and leading him again along the road. “There was an article in _The Examiner_ that I would very much like to discuss with your father if he has the time.”

When they reach The Burrow, Harry’s father is very pleased to see Mr Malfoy, and the two of them sit in the study for a long time. No doubt Mr Weasley is delighted to share a conversation with someone other than Mr Pettigrew. Harry finds himself lingering about the house all morning instead of walking to the field as planned, discreetly listening in to the conversation, which is quite banal and uninteresting to his ears. The sound of Mr Malfoy’s voice, however, is most pleasing to hear, and he is quick to laugh, which never fails to bring a smile to Harry’s face.

Ginny chuckles when she finds him standing in the shadows of the hallway outside the study, eavesdropping. “Come now,” she whispers, dragging him away. “Don’t be rude. Come into the garden with me.”

He follows her half-heartedly but cannot concentrate on the conversation she attempts to sway him into as they sit outside in the sunlight. Fortunately, Mr Malfoy does not leave without finding him and saying farewell, promising to send a letter as soon as he arrives in London.

The prospect of receiving letters from someone other than one of his brothers is a strange one indeed, but certainly not unpleasant, given that those letters will be from Mr Malfoy’s hand. Harry can hardly wait for the first one and finds himself in high spirits until the next day, late in the afternoon. Sitting under his tree as usual, he finds himself disturbed in his reading by Ginny’s sudden arrival. The sight of her, advancing rapidly through the long grass, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, is enough to alert him.

“Whatever is the matter?” he asks when she reaches him, sitting up from his slouched position against the trunk of the tree.

She hands him a folded piece of paper. “I received a letter from Miss Parkinson. Here, read it for yourself.”

Harry frowns as he takes it, surprised by her distressed state. He unfolds it and starts reading at once.

_Longbottom Manor,_   
_9 September 1814_

_My dear Ginevra,_

_By the time you receive this note, our whole party will have left Hogsmeade and Longbottom Manor on our way to London. I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave behind in Hertfordshire, except for the pleasure of your company, my dear friend. Astoria and I hope that, at some future time, we might enjoy many more of those delightful encounters we have known with you. In the meantime, we hope to lessen the pain of our separation with a very frequent and unreserved correspondence._

_Our cousin, accompanied by Severus, preceded us to London yesterday, called away on business, which we imagined would not take more than a day but must now conclude may take four or five days. However, we cannot be certain it will not be even more, for we are convinced that once Neville gets to London, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, as it often happens. Thus, we have decided to follow him there, so that he may not be forced to spend his spare hours away from his dear friends. We are meant to dine tonight in Grosvenor Street, where Theodore has a house, and many of my acquaintances are already settling in London for the winter, all of whom I look forward to meeting again. How I wish that you, my dearest friend, could join us._

_Theodore is impatient to see his younger sister, and we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think that Eleanora Nott has her equal in beauty, elegance, and accomplishments, and the affection she inspires in Astoria and myself is only heightened by the hope we entertain of Neville marrying her. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the county without confiding them. My cousin admires her greatly already, having only met her thrice, but he will have frequent opportunity of seeing her on the most intimate occasions if we are to spend winter in London. Her relations all wish the connection as much as we do, and I think Neville most capable of engaging any woman’s heart. With all these favourable circumstances and nothing to prevent an attachment between them, am I wrong, my dearest Ginevra, to indulge the hope of a union that would secure the happiness of so many?_

_How grieved we are to leave you. I hope your time in Hogsmeade will abound in gaieties equalling the ones awaiting us in London, so as to prevent you feeling the loss of our presence._

_Yours ever,_   
_Pansy Parkinson_

Harry folds the letter again carefully. Yes, he is surprised at the suddenness of Miss Parkinson’s departure, but he would be unable to lament it if it were not for the news that Mr Longbottom has left as well. Mr Snape’s absence, however, is for him a good reason to rejoice, and he must repress a grin at the news.

“She says they are not coming back this winter,” Ginny says tightly, sitting down next to him the shadow of the tree.

Harry sighs, handing her back the note. “It’s obvious that she means she believes they _should not_ come back. I rather think it is her intention to make it so.”

His sister narrows her eyes at him. “Why would you think that? Mr Longbottom is his own master. How could she prevent him from returning if this is what he wants? Oh, but _you_ always know everything, don’t you?” she says reproachfully, but continues before he can interrupt. “And what do you think of the mention of Mr Nott’s sister? Does it not seem to you that Miss Parkinson neither expects nor wishes me to be married to her cousin, or that she is perfectly convinced of his indifference towards me? It seems to me that she suspects the nature of my feelings for him and means to put me on guard. Can there be any other explanation for this?”

“There _is_ another, but you will not want to hear it,” Harry says carefully.

“I _do_ want to hear it,” Ginny insists, an expression of true distress on her face as she holds the note in trembling hands.

“The explanation is that Miss Parkinson is deceptive, Ginny. I have told you so many times, and this is just one more proof of it. She sees that her cousin is in love with you, but she wants him to marry Miss Nott. She follows him to London in hopes of keeping in there, away from you, so that he will set his sights instead on Miss Nott, and she sends this letter to try and persuade you that he does not care about you.”

“I cannot believe that she would do such a thing,” Ginny insists, eyes now filling with tears.

“You _must_ believe me, Ginny. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt Mr Longbottom’s affection for you, and I am convinced that Miss Parkinson cannot either. But the truth is, we are not rich enough or grand enough for her. We have never been. She despises our family. But even if her cousin greatly admires Miss Nott, it in no way means that he is less sensible to you than he was when you last saw him. Nor that it is in her power to persuade him that he is more in love with Mr Nott’s sister than with you. You are right, Mr Longbottom is his own master. This letter seems to me to contain Miss Parkinson’s wishes rather than the truth of the situation. And I cannot believe that her wishes, however repeated or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so independent as Mr Longbottom appears to be.”

Ginny nods, breathing in heavily, determined to let herself be convinced. “But how could I be happy marrying a man whose cousins and friends are all wishing for him to marry someone else?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says softly. “But if you believe that the thought of displeasing his friends would be more miserable for you than the happiness you would feel at being his wife, I think you should refuse him.”

She grasps his arm tightly. “ _How_ can you say that? Even the thought of displeasing them would not make me hesitate to accept him if he were to ask. But if he does not return this winter, what does it matter?” she laments. “A thousand things may happen before I see him again!”

Harry does not reply. He doubts he has ever seen his sister so distressed before, and there is nothing he wants more in this moment than to head to London, find Miss Parkinson, and tell her exactly what he thinks of her. For now, however, he can only sit there with Ginny as she rests her cheek on his shoulder, trying to hold her tears.

* * *

Severus has known Benjamin Fenwick for nearly thirty years, since their days at Eton College, where they shared a dormitory. When they first met, Benjamin was a scrawny thirteen-year-old prone to being bullied in the courtyard by the older boys. As an Alpha, Severus was already a head taller than most of the students in his year, and as Lord Riddle’s nephew, even if the man had him raised by another, he was not someone anyone in school – not the students nor the masters – particularly wanted to antagonise. Perhaps it was for this reason that Benjamin first started keeping by his side. It did not take long, however, for their friendship to be born, and it has perdured ever since.

This alliance had not only been advantageous to Benjamin, but to Severus as well. He doubts he would have made it through his teenage years unscathed without his trusted friend. As the only Beta amongst the four sons of an Alpha father, Benjamin was used to the impulsive and yes, sometimes aggressive temperament of a young Alpha. As such, Severus’ bouts of bad temper never unnerved or deterred him. Those years between fifteen and eighteen, before a young Alpha reaches maturity, are already difficult enough for someone without Severus’ lack of patience in the face of stupidity and lack of interest in human interactions in general. Even as a teenager, Benjamin was patient and thoughtful, unusually clever and wise – a nature that has been most beneficial to Severus. To think of all the trouble he could have found himself into over the years without Benjamin there to apologise on his behalf, to make light of his gruff and blunt manner, to call him back to order and make him realise the error of his ways. Sometimes he finds himself thinking he would not have become the man he is today without Benjamin either. If it had not been for his friend keeping him humble and acting as the voice of reason in their youth, Severus may very well have followed the same path Lucius found himself travelling.

Benjamin’s two older brothers have both followed in their father’s footsteps and become bankers, and the youngest is a successful barrister. It was perhaps to distinguish himself from them and prove himself worthy in the eyes of his father, that Benjamin had decided to join the military. Although he claims it is only a love of ships and naval warfare that prompted this choice of career, Severus knows the truth, and is deeply pleased that Benjamin’s attempts have proven successful in the end. Mr Fenwick has been informing everyone who will listen of his son’s exploits on the seas, of the prizes he gained during the war, of the number of men under his command. In a surprising and thoroughly deserved twist of fate, the once regretted and overlooked Beta son, now Captain Benjamin Fenwick of the Royal Navy, has become his father’s greatest pride.

They have decided to meet at Salazar’s today, one of the numerous and select gentleman’s clubs on St. James Street, and Benjamin is already seated when Severus arrives, but he stands at once to shake his hand. He is not the scrawny little boy he once was, and sometimes the difference is startling, even after all these years. Benjamin is tall and slim and quite elegant, with the presence of a man accustomed to standing on the deck of a ship and shouting orders. He has pitch black hair that he wears very short, a thin, serious mouth, and piercing blue eyes.

“Not too displeased to be back, I hope,” he says, grinning widely.

“Not in the slightest,” Severus assures him as they both settle comfortably in the green velvet armchairs. “Although I will not stay much longer. We are leaving for Derbyshire at first light tomorrow.”

Benjamin raises a surprised eyebrow, his disappointment evident. “Already? You only just arrived yesterday.”

Severus sighs heavily. “Yes, but Julian is behaving like an absolute nuisance. When we are at the manor, he is not so restless, he keeps himself occupied. But whenever we are in town, he plagues me ceaselessly, begging me to attend this ball or that reception, to talk to this lady or eavesdrop on that gentleman.” He pauses, frowning at Benjamin for laughing. “He cannot bear to be in London without leaving the house. It is easier for him to be in Derbyshire. And what is easier for him is, ultimately, easier for me,” he concludes.

A waiter comes by to ask what they would like to eat and drink. It is a new one, a young man who looks quite nervous. “Will your uncle be joining you today, Mr Snape?” he asks curiously once they have passed their order.

Severus raises an eyebrow. “Good Lord, I certainly hope not,” he declares, repulsed at the very thought.

“Very well, sir,” the young man says, repressing a grin before walking away.

Benjamin chuckles. “Lord Riddle, the cause of unbearable dread in gentleman’s clubs all over the country,” he mumbles. “How is he faring? Have you been to see him?”

“I would never go unless summoned. It is my intention to leave London before he can become aware that I have even been here in the first place.”

“Bold of you to assume he does not know already,” Benjamin remarks.

Severus sighs heavily. “Perhaps. If so, whatever matters have been keeping him occupied are a true blessing.” He clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Can we not talk of something more interesting than my dreaded uncle?”

“Certainly. How was Hertfordshire?” Benjamin asks, smirking.

Severus snorts. “How do you think?”

His friend, as always, looks amused by his misery. “Well, I heard it is rather beautiful.”

“Beautiful, perhaps, but filled with common and smallminded people.”

Benjamin laughs. “What else would you expect, Severus? It is the country, of course people are common and smallminded. I take it you were not very popular. Although, you were away for quite some time. I wonder if it was truly as dreadful as you claim. Was there something in particular keeping you there? Or someone?”

Severus frowns at him, immediately suspicious. “Why would you think that? Have you spoken to Neville? Or Theodore?”

His friend laughs again, delighted. “There was no need to speak to anyone, Severus. I know you. You despise the country. When Neville invited you to come with him, you looked like a man headed to the gallows, and you claimed you would be back within two days at the most. How long were you gone precisely? A whole month? I _know_ you,” he repeats, “and that is why I think that someone caught your eye.”

They fall silent when their food arrives, and remain so for a time, as they begin eating. There is this smile still, fixed on the corner of Benjamin’s lips. A knowing smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Severus snaps at last.

“Tell me, who is the young lady? Or…” Benjamin pauses, stares at him for a moment. “Is it an Omega? Is that why you are so reticent to say? It _is_!” he hisses triumphantly. “I _knew_ it!”

Severus clears his throat. “It does not matter anymore, Benjamin.”

“At last, someone has caught your eye! Are you not courting him?”

“No. Most definitely not,” Severus says coldly. “As I said, it does not matter anymore. He has no interest in me.”

Benjamin looks at him in disbelief. “How could he not? How could any Omega in their right mind not be interested in you? Surely you are mistaken.”

“I assure you I am not,” Severus repeats, eyes fixed on his plate, although all appetite has suddenly left him.

“What happened?”

“What _always_ happens, Benjamin,” he finally reveals, deeply irritated now. “What always happens whenever I must attend a social event and you are not there to prevent me from making a fool of myself.”

Benjamin sighs softly. “Good Lord... What did you say?”

“The most horrible things.”

Severus sighs heavily, once again wondering how on earth he has found himself in this state. Him, Severus Snape, who has always been so in control of his own feelings, of his own instincts. And yet he feels that leaving that miserable town was like prying away a part of himself. He feels like he is now walking around with half of his ribcage torn off. His heart is nearly exposed, protected only by a thin membrane, pulsing wildly and threatening to escape.

“I was _not_ prepared for it, Benjamin. For _him_. How could I have been prepared to encounter such a young man in such a place? I did not know what to do. I should have asked him to dance, as any reasonable man would have. I should have, but I could not. Neville kept insisting and I did not know how to act, so I said the most horrible things and he heard me say them. The look on his face in that moment, I still see it when I close my eyes. From then on, he would not look my way, he would barely speak to me. I said such horrible things and he believed them. Never have I felt such guilt, and however I tried to seek forgiveness, I could not speak it, and when I did speak it, he would not hear it. He is so _stubborn_ ,” he finishes, unable to prevent a hint of desperation from taking over his words.

“I never thought you–” Benjamin begins softly, but Severus interrupts him at once.

“I never thought I would either.” He sets his fork down, all thought of food forgotten. “I had come to believe this world had nothing to offer me. I had resigned myself to following whatever path my uncle decided was mine to follow.”

When he looks up at his friend, he finds Benjamin has also stopped eating and is listening intently, his features softened.

“I have been drifting through this life,” Severus continues, “without ever knowing what I truly wanted from it, without finding pleasure in anything that was offered to me. I have fortune, I have friends, I can travel the world, but none of it has ever brought me joy. And thus, I have long been convinced that it was my destiny to forever be weary and disinterested. I never thought I would find something I truly wanted, _someone_ , and certainly not in that miserable town. You should _see_ him. He is beautiful and intelligent and...” He interrupts his rambling suddenly, throwing his friend a dark glare. “And if you ever so much as utter a word of this to Julian, your body will never be found.”

Benjamin is not in the least deterred by the threat. “Is there no hope of reconciliation left at all?”

Severus shakes his head bitterly. “There is nothing to reconciliate. And if there ever was a morsel of hope for me, Lucius Malfoy has taken it away by now.”

“Lucius? What on earth does he have to do with this?”

Severus tells Benjamin all about the arrival of the militia in Hogsmeade and their meeting on the road and how it became evident to him shortly afterwards that Lucius had already charmed his deceitful way into Mr Weasley’s good graces when Neville found himself questioned by Miss Weasley on his behalf. He tells him about finally mustering up the courage to ask the young man to dance, only to be cruelly rejected, and throughout the tale, his friend’s face is marked with worry.

“What do you believe Lucius has told him?”

“Knowing him as I do, surely that I am somehow responsible for him now being nearly destitute. And surely that I keep a disgraced Omega under my roof. Mr Weasley is intelligent, but he has not seen much of the world. He would not be able to see through Lucius’ lies. And once Lucius has smelled an unclaimed Omega, it is already too late,” he finishes bitterly.

Benjamin shakes his head. He looks quite disappointed. “I cannot believe you would be so easily discouraged, Severus.”

“Easily? I have made every attempt to–”

“Oh, you have _not_ , and you know that. If he will not listen, you should write to him and explain everything. You have always been more charming on paper.”

“Perhaps,” Severus acquiesces, although he doubts he will ever find the courage to write such a letter.

Later, as they leave, Severus suggests that Benjamin takes pity on him and comes back to the house for a brandy. As expected, his friend is quick to accept. Before that, however, Severus decides to stop by the shops in order to find a present of some sort for Julian, if only to make amends for his prolonged absence so that the young man is somewhat bearable during tomorrow’s journey.

They head down St. James Street to a fancy stationary shop with a window filled with beautiful, expensive quills. They have barely entered when Benjamin stops abruptly and turns to Severus, alarmed.

“Speaking of the devil,” he mutters at the very moment Severus catches sight of Lucius Malfoy’s silver hair amongst the small crowd wandering the shop.

There he is, standing near the register, speaking to the clerk, who is wrapping a parcel for him. It does not take long for Severus to be noticed, even with Lucius’ back turned. His old _friend_ has always had a most excellent sense of smell, even for an Alpha.

“Severus!” he exclaims, looking absolutely pleased to see him. “And Fenwick! How unexpected to see you here, both of you!”

As he stands there, rooted to the spot, Severus cannot help wondering what the onlookers may think of the scene. Lucius, in his red coat, jovial and good-natured as he always is in public, is the perfect image of the charming Alpha. As opposed to Severus, dark-clad as always, with his equally dark stare, and Benjamin, who stands there hesitantly, filled with dread.

“Lucius,” Severus says shortly, nearly hissing the word between his teeth.

“I did not know you were back in London, Severus,” Lucius continues grinning widely. “You look well. I believe the fresh country air has done you some good. I am eager to return to it myself. I am only in town for a few days, you see. And as soon as all this nonsensical business is over with, I will be on my way back to my company.”

“Your package, sir,” the clerk announces, handing Lucius a beautifully wrapped gift, which Severus easily supposes must be one of the expensive sets of quills he saw in the window before walking in.

“Thank you, my good sir,” Lucius says before turning back to Severus and Benjamin. “I have just purchased a present for a lovely Omega I am courting. Why, I think you know of him, don’t you, Severus?” he asks, lowering his voice as he comes nearer. “Such a delightful creature, is he not? All alone in that despicable town.” He is nearly whispering now, so close Severus can all but feel his breath on his face. “I smelled him all the way across the street. Unclaimed. And fresh from his first heat, if you would believe it. Just how I like them.”

Severus is seething, hands trembling, doing everything in his power not to launch at the still grinning man.

“Gentlemen,” Benjamin says firmly, stepping in closer to them, sensing the danger.

“Oh, I know what you must be thinking,” Lucius continues, ignoring him. “I know I could just take him and make the task easier for myself, but what would I gain by it? I would rather he gives himself to me willingly. They _always_ do. You know something about that don’t you, Severus? Tell me, how is Julian faring these days?”

“Do not say his name,” Severus rasps dangerously.

Lucius chuckles, amused at the expression of pure rage on Severus’ face. “You are mistaking me, Severus. I truly want to know. Perhaps I should write to him and find out for myself. Or perhaps I should simply visit. He has always been a most generous–”

“If you dare touch him–”

Lucius waves his hand in annoyance. “Do not worry about that. He has nothing to offer me anymore. I have no taste for spoils, and certainly not yours.”

“What are you _insinuating_? I am nothing like you, Lucius.”

Lucius only shakes his head. “I will never understand you. Why are you so determined to deny yourself the fine things nature has bestowed on you? Oh, but you are too honourable to succumb, are you not? You have never _had_ an Omega, have you? If you had, you would understand me, you would be like me, perhaps. You would be free, Severus. It is nothing like being with a Beta. It is… exquisite, if I may say so. They are truly delectable, all yours for the taking. Well, all the better for me then. If you will not take Mr Weasley, I certainly will.”

Severus reaches out to grab him, trembling with rage. “You vile–”

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Benjamin intervenes again, quite firmly now, stepping in between them. “Let us not cause a scene. Lucius, why don’t you go on your way?”

Still smirking, Lucius takes a step back at last. And Severus would have let him leave. He would have let him go and it would have all been over if he had not added, softly still, “Next time we meet, Severus, I will be sure to let you know.”

“Let me know what?”

“How it feels to _knot_ him.”

“Severus!” Benjamin shouts, but it is too late, his fist has already connected with Lucius' face.

One evening when Severus was twenty-three years old, he was attending a very tedious reception with his uncle when, suddenly, he felt a tug at his sleeve. When he looked down, he found himself confronted with a rather serious-looking child. The boy had tousled brown hair and large, dark blue eyes, and he was staring up at Severus quite intensely.

“Yes?” Severus inquired.

“I will marry you,” the child announced, with his chin up and a determined air.

Severus arched a bemused eyebrow. “Will you, now? And who are you exactly?”

“I am Julian. I am seven years old,” the boy said proudly.

Severus nodded, now recognising him as the host’s youngest son. “Seven is quite young to marry,” he remarked.

The boy frowned at him, scolding. “It will not be _now_ ,” he insisted. “But soon enough. I am certain my father will approve of you. He speaks highly of your uncle.”

Severus was perplexed. He did not know what normal behaviour for seven-year-olds was, but he was nearly convinced they did not usually act like this one did.

“My aunt gifted me a large, wooden rocking horse for my birthday,” the boy told Severus. “It is rather impressive. Would you like to see it?”

Severus nodded solemnly. “Absolutely,” he declared. “Will you lead the way, future husband of mine?”

They never married, of course. Neither of them married anyone. Perhaps Julian’s father _would_ have approved the engagement, but Severus has no doubt his uncle would not. Lord Riddle has a thorough dislike of Omegas, regardless of how noble their family happens to be. Through a series of unfortunate events, they have found themselves forming a small, unconventional family, but Severus has come to see Julian as a younger brother rather than a potential husband.

Although he is now twenty-four years old, Julian is still every bit the spoiled, demanding child he has always been. He has evidently been pacing in the entrance hall for a time, surely fuming and ready to thoroughly make Severus regret going out to dinner, when they arrive. One glance at Severus’ bruised face, bleeding nose, and injured knuckles, however, and the look of anger turns into one of alarmed concern.

“What the _devil_ happened to you?” he gasps.

Severus only groans, and the question is answered instead by Benjamin, who throws him a disapproving glare. “Our dear friend here has had a most unfortunate encounter with Mr Malfoy.”

Julian gapes at them, eyes wide with disbelief. “You _fought_ with Lucius? Why?”

“Because he is Lucius,” Severus drawls, his face throbbing in pain with each word. He throws Benjamin a warning look, reminding him to keep their conversation quiet. If Julian ever hears about Mr Weasley, the teasing and questioning will be endless.

Julian considers the statement for a moment then shrugs. “I suppose that is reason enough. Should I call for the doctor? You look dreadful.”

“I will be fine,” Severus grumbles. “If you could fetch me a new handkerchief, there is a spare in my suitcase,” he adds, desperate to replace the one he has been holding to his face, soaked through with blood by now.

“Yes, of course,” Julian says at once, hurrying away to the corner of the hall where their suitcases are packed and ready to be charged into the coach.

Meanwhile, Benjamin escorts Severus into the parlour. “I hope you are proud of yourself,” he scolds.

“I am, in fact,” Severus rasps darkly. “I am very proud. Do you have any idea how long I have wanted to do this? I hope I broke his nose. It felt broken. It made a noise.”

Benjamin cannot help but grin. “It did make quite a loud noise. Yours could be broken as well… There is a lot of blood. Perhaps we _should_ call for the doctor.”

“ _Where_ is that handkerchief?” Severus calls out impatiently.

“I am searching for it!” Julian replies. “Oh, I think I found it… Oh! What is _this_?”

There is a strangled gasp and then silence. A moment later, Julian comes running into the parlour, holding not Severus’ spare handkerchief, but something else. Something that leaves Severus frozen in mortification and shame.

“What is _this_?” Julian repeats, eyes wide and horrified, holding the soiled pillowcase by a corner, unwilling to touch it. “Severus! This _stinks_ of Omega.” He takes a whiff of the air, holding the pillowcase even further away from him. “Oh God, Severus… What have you _done_?” he cries out, dropping the piece of fabric to the floor and retreating away from it.

“I did nothing!” Severus protests, hiding as much of his face in the bloody handkerchief as he possibly can. “It is not what you think!”

“Severus, does that–?” Benjamin begins asking, his face livid.

“I did not touch him! He was… I did not touch him! I would _never_! I just took the pillowcase… I stole it from his bed,” he finishes, heart pounding, horrified to be forced to admit this to anyone, let alone Julian and Benjamin.

There is silence for a time, tensed and startled and thick. And then Julian guffaws and laughs loudly, the joyous sound echoing in the house. “Oh _Severus_! Oh! I never thought you had it in you!” he gasps, clutching at his stomach. “Oh! Oh, I can’t breathe!”

“Is that Mr Weasley’s pillowcase?” Benjamin asks, staring in shock at the dirty pillowcase lying pitifully on the marble floor.

“Who is Mr Weasley?” Julian demands.

“You brought this on yourself,” Benjamin says with a shrug when Severus looks darkly at him. “Good Lord, even _I_ can smell that thing. How long have you been–”

“ _Who_ is he?” Julian insists.

“An Omega Severus has met in Hertfordshire, and on whom Lucius has now set his sights.”

Julian looks astounded, then he frowns. “And here I thought you were defending _my_ honour, Severus. I am deeply wounded.”

“Your name _was_ mentioned once,” Benjamin adds.

“Oh, then I suppose–”

“Will the two of you be quiet and let me die of mortification?” Severus drawls. He hides his face deeper into the bloody handkerchief and moans in distress.

“Benjamin, hand me the fire poker, will you?” Julian asks. “We must burn this thing, and I would rather not touch it with my bare hands again.”


	10. contemplation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling readers, 
> 
> Please receive my sincerest apologies for the intermittence between this chapter and the last. As you know, I was in the midst of some end of term schooling and struggles and could not give this story any attention for a certain duration. But it is all over now, and I have been hard at work. I have met a few obstacles in the road, however. For one, I have had to review my timeline a little bit, for it seems the story has gotten away from me. Therefore, slight modifications have been made to the previous chapters, but I doubt you will notice. The ball at Mr Longbottom's now takes place on a Monday, whereas it was previously held on a Friday, and some dates have been changed on some letters received and sent. As you can see, those are very minor changes that do not alter the story in any way, and were simply for my own peace of mind. 
> 
> Once again, my verbose nature has forced me to change the plans for this chapter. I had been planning to introduce two important new gentlemen in this chapter, but I have been forced to postpone the arrival of a beloved newcomer, for this chapter would have been much too long. Some important scenes that deserve more thorough thinking and planning on my part have also been postponed for next chapter, allowing me to post this one sooner and to make it shorter. But I have no doubt you will enjoy what I have to offer just as much.
> 
> As always you are invited to visit me on the Tumblr. Simply look up "liladiurne" and you shall find me. I sometimes share extracts from chapters I am creating to make the wait more pleasant. If that interests you, be welcomed to take a look. I await your greetings with anticipation. Now, go read on at once, darling readers, and please share your thoughts on the events of this chapter. Oh, how I look forward to them!
> 
> Ever yours, and with much love,  
> Lila

* * *

**\- 10 -**

**contemplation**

* * *

CONTEMPLATION, _s_. [from _contemplate_.]

  1. Meditation; studious thought on any subject.
  2. Holy meditation; a holy exercise of the soul, employed in attention to sacred things.
  3. Study; opposed to action.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

Life at The Burrow was already tense following Harry’s refusal of Mr Pettigrew’s proposal. Now, with the unpleasant addition of Mr Longbottom’s abrupt departure, it has become rather gloomy. Thus, Harry avoids the house as much as possible. He walks to his field immediately upon returning from his daily visits to the postal counter and spends most of his days under the tree, rereading the _Tristram Shandy_ books that he borrows from the shelves in his father’s study, and coming home only briefly for dinner before disappearing again. It seems September has only just started, but the days are getting colder already, the air full of the smells of oncoming autumn, and he often has to bring a coat or a blanket to spread on the ground in the morning.

In town, the gossip regarding the sudden desertion of Longbottom Manor is fast to spread. The very day after Ginny receives the dreadful note, it can already be heard from every mouth that neither Mr Longbottom, nor any of his companions, will be returning to Hertfordshire before spring. Harry’s mother claims that the source of this information is sure to be the McLaggens, for they know _everything_ occurring in the county, but she will not ask Mrs McLaggen herself, for they are not speaking at the moment. She is, however, certain that the rumour _must_ stem from Miss Parkinson as well, for she has quite possibly remained in contact with Mrs McLaggen’s niece Charlotte, and possibly other young ladies in town apart from Ginny. Harry strongly doubts this, for Miss Parkinson has never shown anyone else any interest – quite the contrary, in fact – and has often voiced horrible thoughts on Miss McLaggen. In his mind, the source of it all is simply Mrs Weasley herself, for she can hardly speak of anything else. Regardless, after much worrying and pacing and nagging, his mother managed to convince Ginny to write Miss Parkinson directly and seek clarification on whether her company really is to remain in London for the winter or not. A note has been sent to the address provided on Grosvenor Street, but two days later, a response has yet to arrive.

As for Ginny, since this bout of worry and distress when she confided her feelings under the tree, she now carefully conceals them and has become sullen and quiet. If Harry felt that they had become much closer these last few weeks, they now seem to have returned to their previous state of mutual disinterest. Not that Harry does not care about her, but she seems to be openly avoiding him – undoubtedly upset with him for once again voicing his opinion regarding Miss Parkinson’s true intentions – and he finds he does not have the words to comfort her anymore. And so, he has decided not to press the issue and to leave her to her thoughts for the time being.

Truth be told, Harry is worried as well, and the more he talks to Ginny, the more evident it will appear. He fears not that Mr Longbottom is indifferent towards his sister, but he truly fears that Miss Parkinson will be successful in keeping her cousin away. As unwilling as he is to admit such a possibility – so destructive to Ginny’s happiness and so dishonourable to Mr Longbottom himself – Harry cannot prevent the idea from occurring to him frequently. Certainly, Mrs Nott has nothing to do with this stratagem, and Harry doubts even her husband cares about such matters. But the whole affair is sure to be the combined efforts of the unfeeling cousin and of the overpowering friend, namely Miss Parkinson and Mr Snape. No, Harry does not doubt Mr Longbottom’s affections for Ginny at all. However, he does fear that, in time, if these scheming efforts are successful, and assisted by the charms of the beautiful Miss Nott and the amusements of London, they may very well cause Mr Longbottom’s attachments for Ginny to decrease.

The anxiety of awaiting Miss Parkinson’s letter casts an even darker shadow over the household, and Harry is content to spend his days in the quiet, sunlit field, away from it all. He awaits and dreads the arrival of the letter, for it will put an end to the ceaseless suspense, but most probably will contain bad news. Every morning, when he leaves the postal counter with nothing for his sister, he feels both relief and disappointment. On Wednesday, however, his mind is distracted from it all when, after retrieving from the pile of post a letter from Aunt Mable, Uncle Fabian’s wife, addressed to Mrs Weasley, Mr Ollivander also hands Harry a letter and a beautifully wrapped parcel. It is addressed to him in a most elegant handwriting, and Harry knows at once who it is from.

He had not exactly forgotten about Mr Malfoy’s promise to write but with everything else happening at home, it had slipped to the back of his mind. Although the possibility of receiving a letter from the man is entirely the reason why Harry’s visits to Mr Ollivander’s shop have been so consistent – because it is much too early still to get a reply from Charlie – part of him had been dubious. Perhaps he had been expecting, though he had not exactly allowed himself to form the thought, that the Alpha would forget about him as soon as he arrived in London. Perhaps he had been fearing that what was happening to his sister could possibly happen to him as well, although he would never pretend that what he feels for Mr Malfoy is anything close to Ginny’s affections for Mr Longbottom, nor that Mr Malfoy could have the same sort of attachment to _him_. Thus, Harry finds himself incredibly flattered and relieved that the man has kept to his word. There is still hope in the world, it seems. There are still people who are true and kind, loyal to their promises and intentions.

He slips the letter addressed to his mother into his pocket, tucks the parcel safely under his arm, and walks swiftly down the road leading home. Instead of heading for The Burrow, however, he takes the path leading to the old mill and then cuts through the moors and the fields until he reaches his beloved tree. He could have gone home and opened the package in his bedroom, but there is the possibility that he would have been assaulted with questions upon entering the house, as everyone is constantly awaiting news from the post, and he wants to open this in private, somewhere quiet and away from prying eyes. He unfolds the letter first, hands shaking in anticipation.

_London_   
_11 September 1814_

_Dear Mr Weasley,_

_I have been in London all of two days, and already I find myself longing to return to Hertfordshire and its quaint and peaceful surroundings. I attended last evening a tedious dinner party with other officers and found myself so profoundly disinterested that I could only think back fondly on the evening spent in your home. I have half a mind to travel back to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon if only to spend an hour in your lovely company. I would gladly discuss Shakespeare with you rather than be forced to listen to these pompous officers rambling on about military matters. Each day that passes only ascertains my conviction that the soldier life is no life for me. Alas, as you know, I find myself with no other alternative. A wise man must always make the best of his circumstances, as my father used to say, and I should not complain, but I often find myself dreaming of better days and the different life I could be leading if bad fortune had not befallen me. Forgive me for sharing these dark thoughts, but you have a kind heart, and I believe you can understand my sorrow. It eases my anguish to be able to write to you with honesty and no fear of judgement._

_I am comfortably settled in a lodging house on Russell Square, on the recommendation of a fellow lieutenant who is well acquainted with the keeper. My room has a pleasant view of the gardens and the promenade, where I am fond of taking long walks to pass the time. I wandered into the British Museum this morning, and thought of you when visiting the reading room, where it is possible to peruse any book or manuscript in the collection. On the upper floors are works of art of all sorts, as well as fossils and stuffed animals from distant lands. I am, however, particularly fond of the gallery, where one can contemplate all the antiquities and statues of Greek and Roman and Egyptian origin. I had a most pleasant morning, but I do hope you will not think it impudent of me to admit that it would have been much pleasanter spent in your company._

_I have, however, had quite the misadventure on Saturday. Upon visiting the shops surrounding St. James’ Square, I came upon the unfortunate scene of the most vicious Alpha treating a young Omega in quite an unkind manner. Many passers-by were present to witness the scene, and yet none of them felt the need to intervene. As you know, it is not in my nature to leave the vulnerable and defenceless to their own means, and thus I approached and ordered the despicable Alpha to cease at once. I am afraid the man did not take to being reprimanded as well as that horrible McLaggen boy once did. I regret to inform you that we had quite the scuffle and that, as a result, I obtained a badly swollen eye as well as a broken nose. But I do not regret my intervention in the least, and the young Omega was very grateful. I have seen him home safely and been thanked profusely by his poor mother. It never ceases to anger me how some gentlemen take pleasure at preying on Omegas, for they are helpless and cannot properly defend themselves. I believe they are precious and rare and should be cherished and protected, but unfortunately very few men seem to share this opinion._

_It was the memory of your own encounter with a rude Alpha, and of our first meeting, that urged me to purchase this present I have sent you. I hope you will not think me presumptuous for it, and if ever your parents are outraged and find me impertinent, please be so kind as to send them my humblest apologies. I mean nothing insolent by sending such a present, and my intentions are entirely inoffensive. I have often contemplated these in London shop windows and marvelled at their beauty, but never found a use for them myself, having no one to write to. I do hope you will appreciate them and use them copiously._

_I await your reply already, for it would brighten any day._

_Yours respectfully,_   
_Lucius Malfoy_

Harry carefully unwraps the parcel, revealing a beautiful case of smooth leather which he unclasps eagerly. Inside are three stunning quills, already cut and perfectly curved, and of such quality that Harry would never dare purchase for himself. The small card included informs him that the first is a pheasant feather, the second a raven one, and the third, which he could not identify – mostly black, but turning grey, and then white at the bottom – an eagle one. There is also a beautiful silver quill knife that shines in the sunlight and that makes Harry blush in embarrassment as he thinks of his old one at home, with its worn and chipped wooden handle and its ink-stained blade.

As charmed as he is by this unexpected present, he cannot help but wonder what it means. It must have cost a fortune, and he cannot imagine how Mr Malfoy could be so generous with the little money he has. But perhaps the man has so little friends for whom to buy presents that he simply got carried away. He even raises the issue himself, hoping not to offend or seem too forward. Harry reads that part of the letter again, where Mr Malfoy offers his apologies to his parents, and he cannot help but be charmed by it. How thoughtful of the man to know that this gesture might be misinterpreted and to explain it at once to prevent any misunderstanding. Harry smiles as he remembers their first meeting, when Mr Malfoy immediately asked Mr Ollivander to properly introduce them. How calculated and thoughtful are his actions, how polite his manners. And how horrendous that he should now be injured for coming to a young man’s rescue, just like he did Harry’s. A swollen eye and a broken nose! Harry is furious to think of such wounds marring Mr Malfoy’s perfect features.

He cannot quite concentrate on his book today, and for a long time he simply stares out at the field distractedly, often unclasping the leather case to look at the quills again, still unsure whether or not he should tell his parents who sent them. It may only be a thoughtful present, of course, and mean nothing more. But there is this thought in the back of his mind that this is perhaps a courting gift, and that he definitely should tell his father about it. Is that not how the custom goes? Should Mr Malfoy not have formally asked his father’s permission before attempting any form of courting? And what if Harry’s father does not take well to the revelation that Mr Malfoy has sent him this present in secret?

But is it _truly_ secret? The Alpha _did_ write that it was a harmless present, and perhaps Harry only _wishes_ it meant more than it really does. Therefore, there should be no harm in telling his father. But then he thinks back on what Mr Weasley said the day after Mr Pettigrew proposed, about his fears regarding treacherous Alphas and Harry falling into their clutches. What if, upon finding out about the present, he forbids Harry from accepting anything Mr Malfoy offers? What if he forbids Harry from even speaking to the man anymore? It is difficult to imagine such an outcome, for Mr Weasley seems to appreciate Mr Malfoy’s company. But although it has never been in his father’s nature to be controlling, he does have a tendency to be unflinching on certain matters. Harry visiting London, for example. No matter how many times Harry has begged him, his father has always firmly refused to allow this. What if he takes to Harry being courted with the same tenacity?

Perhaps Harry is simply misinterpreting everything. It is only quills, after all. A perfectly respectable gift that he would never question coming from a friend. But in these circumstances, the friend happens to be an older man that, however kind and gallant, Harry barely knows. And an Alpha.

Shortly before dinnertime, Harry decides that he should ask Hermione’s opinion on the matter. She is always wise and has a resourceful knowledge of this kind of thing. She will know exactly what the present means, and whether or not he should tell his father. And so, he cuts through the moors again instead of walking directly home, and he walks past the old mill and through the thicket until he emerges near her house.

He is still treading amongst the trees when he hears Hermione’s quiet laughter coming from the garden, but he stops in his tracks at the low rumble of a familiar voice. Quietly, Harry peeks through the leaves and sees what he suspected but would not believe if he were not seeing it clearly now. Hermione is sitting near the back porch, at the little table where she often sits to have tea with her mother, but it is not Mrs Granger who is sitting with her today. It is Cormac McLaggen. They are talking pleasantly, and although he is not close enough to hear their words, Harry is close enough to see the way Hermione smiles amicably at the young man, the way she is enraptured by what he is saying.

Harry is immediately furious. How _dare_ she? Dancing with Cormac at the ball is one thing, but _this_! Having tea with him! Sitting with him like this! Talking and laughing! How could anyone laugh at anything this crude, horrible boy could have to say? Harry has half a mind to burst through the treeline, trample through the flowerbed, and tell her exactly what he thinks of all this. He has the good sense, however, to simply continue on through the trees until he reaches the main road, and he keeps walking towards home, fuming, feeling thoroughly betrayed.

When he sneaks into the house, quietly, trying to make his way up to his bedroom without being noticed, the leather case is wrenched from his hands before he can even reach the stairs. He has tried to wrap it again into a parcel but has been quite unsuccessful and his mother easily reveals the contents.

“Now, what is this?” she asks at once. “Was this sent in the post?”

“No,” Harry answers stupidly, but she has already opened the beautiful case and is gaping at the quills, perfectly aware that it surely does not come from Mr Jones’ stationary shop.

“ _Who_ is this from? Surely not Charlie!” she says, turning the case over as if searching for a note, but Mr Malfoy’s letter is safe, deep in Harry’s pocket. “Oh, is it from Percy? Did Percy send this? It must have been _very_ expensive!”

“Yes. Yes, it’s from Percy,” Harry says at once, thinking that this is a very good idea indeed. This is exactly the sort of thing Percy would purchase, although if his brother were ever to purchase such a beautiful and costly quills set, there is no doubt in his mind that he would keep it for himself and not waste it on Harry.

“Oh, how thoughtful!” his mother exclaims at once, charmed as she always is by each and every kindness performed by one of her children. “What a good boy he has always been. Such beautiful quills. Have you seen this, Arthur? Look at the pheasant feather! Such beautiful colours!”

Harry’s father has emerged from his study at the commotion and is now leaning against the doorframe. “Indeed,” he says, looking amused.

“I have a letter for you,” Harry tells his mother suddenly, taking it out of his pocket and hoping to divert her attention away from the quills. “From Aunt Mable.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Mrs Weasley exclaims, snatching the letter from his hands and giving him back his present, as he was hoping she would. “I have written her about all this nasty business. I am eager to know what she thinks of it,” she muses out loud before walking away, already unfolding the letter.

Harry throws one last, furtive look at his father before dashing up the stairs, clutching the leather case preciously against his chest.

Two days later, Harry retrieves from the post a letter addressed to Ginny, and he heads home at once to deliver it. It is, of course, Miss Parkinson’s much awaited response, and it rapidly dismisses all hope of seeing Mr Longbottom return anytime soon.

The very first sentence proclaims that her whole company is now settled in London comfortably, with absolutely no intention to leave it before the end of winter, with the exception of a possible visit to Mr Snape’s beautiful manor in Derbyshire. She then conveys both her cousins’ regrets at not having had the time to pay their respects to their dear friends in Hogsmeade before they left the county, and proceeds to joyfully enumerates all the events and balls and gatherings that she looks forward to attending in the city. The rest of the letter does not offer more joy. Once again, praise for Miss Eleanora Nott occupies most of the remaining page. Her many qualities are again dwelt on at length, and Miss Parkinson boasts of their increasing intimacy and numerous affinities. She then predicts the oncoming accomplishment of the wish she mentioned in her previous letter, that of the possible engagement of Miss Nott and her dear cousin Neville, and is convinced that it is now but a matter of time, and that the announcement is sure to be made before Christmas.

Harry listens with silent indignation as Ginny reads the letter for all to hear, a tremor in her voice. His heart is divided between concern for her and resentment for those who claim themselves her _dear_ _friends_. He still does not doubt Mr Longbottom’s fondness for Ginny, and nothing anyone says could convince him otherwise, but as much as he has always been disposed to like the young man, Harry now cannot think about him without anger. That easiness of temper of his, which Harry first admired upon meeting him, is revealing itself to be a complete lack of proper resolution which inevitably makes him the slave of his selfish cousin. This seems, ultimately, to be leading him to sacrifice his own happiness to the caprice of Miss Parkinson’s inclinations. Mr Longbottom’s regard for Ginny was real, of _that_ Harry is convinced. But weather it has really died away or was suppressed by his cousin’s interference, Ginny’s situation remains the same, her heart equally wounded. Therefore, Harry can find in him no compassion for the young man.

Ginny retires to her bedroom afterwards, and Harry follows her there some time later, in hopes that she might want to talk to him, and that if she does, he will be able to comfort her. He also wishes to avoid their mother’s endless complaining, which has grown in unpleasantness with this new letter. Her whining can be heard all the way up the stairs.

He finds his sister rummaging through her embroidery things as if searching for something, but he suspects she is only trying to keep her hands occupied.

“If only Mamma could stop talking about him,” she says when she notices Harry standing in the doorway, and there is coldness in her voice. “She has no idea the pain she brings every time she mentions his name.”

“I will tell her to stop.”

Ginny smiles at the ridiculousness of the statement. “Do not trouble yourself. I will endure. It cannot last long, can it? I will forget him,” she says softly. “People forget. Soon, everything shall be as it was before.”

Harry stares at her incredulously but says nothing.

“You doubt me? I tell you, in a short while, I will be better. I can at least have the comfort that everything is my own fault.”

He frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“It was all an error on my part,” she explains with a helpless shrug of her shoulders, “to believe that he liked me. No harm has been done to anyone but myself. I should not have been so credulous.”

“He _does_ like you,” Harry insists. “And he left regardless. He has allowed himself to be led away in spite of it. _He_ is the one to blame, him and Miss Parkinson especially. It is no fault of your own. _They_ are the ones who harmed you, and I would not have you speak other–”

“I want to be alone now, Harry,” she says abruptly, turning away. “Please.”

He leaves her to herself without a word, dejected. To complement the general unhappiness caused by the letter, rain has started pouring, preventing Harry from finding refuge under his tree. It is more and more common as autumn draws nearer, and he joins his father in the study once again.

“Your sister is very much in love, I believe,” Mr Weasley remarks while he skims through some papers on his desk.

Harry sighs, letting himself fall quite ungracefully into one of the armchairs by the window. “I believe so as well.”

His father hums, then rumbles a groan of irritation and leaves his papers to come and sit across from Harry, easily pulled away from whatever tedious business he had to attend to by the prospect of a good conversation. “When is _your_ turn to come, I wonder,” he muses.

Harry frowns at him. “If love is so painful, I would rather avoid it.”

Mr Weasley smiles softly. “It is not always painful.”

Harry shrugs, looking back at the rain outside.

“There are plenty of officers in town,” his father remarks after a time.

Harry scoffs, not turning to look at him, but a flutter has already formed in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps he should have retired to his bedroom, because he seems to have stepped into a trap instead. “You have a keen sense of observation,” he only replies.

“Is there not one that has caught your eye?”

Harry shifts to look directly at his father and is met with a kind, careful gaze. “What are you _saying_ , Papa?”

His father shrugs, but then he says prudently, in this tone he uses sometimes with Harry’s mother when he tries not to anger her, “Mr Malfoy is a pleasant fellow, don’t you think?”

“I _do_ think so,” Harry finally admits, his heart in his throat. Then, more hesitantly, “Would you approve?”

“Perhaps,” his father says pensively, folding his hands on his lap. “It was a very thoughtful present that he sent you. He seems to understand you well.”

Harry sits up straighter, looking at him more closely. His father does not seem surprised, of course. “You knew about it?”

“I had an inkling, which you just confirmed. He speaks of you quite fondly. What do you think about it?”

“About the quills?”

His father smiles more gently still. “About it all. About the possibility of a courtship.”

Harry wraps his arms around his knees tightly, leaning back deeper into the armchair. “It scares me,” he mumbles.

“Courtship does not mean engagement or marriage with certainty, Harry. The decision would be yours. I assure you, once again, that you will never be forced into anything you do not want.”

“I know, Papa.”

“I, for one, believe it to be an idea worth entertaining,” Mr Weasley says cautiously. “A formal courtship would allow you to know the gentleman better. So many seek marriage because it is expected of them, not because they truly want it. And so many young people are carried away by the idea of romance and rush into hasty marriages, and that is not what I wish for you. Although I have no doubt that you would never be prompted to do such a thing, for you know your heart better than anyone. Has Mr Malfoy expressed his intentions to you?”

Harry thinks this over for a time. “No. But… perhaps it was implied. Only, I did not want to assume that he meant it.” He looks away at the falling rain again, nervous under his father’s scrutinising gaze. “Mr Malfoy is so… gallant and kind and… I am nothing special, Papa. I have not seen the world. I know nothing but books. I am not like those Omegas in London, I am sure. I don’t understand why he would want to court _me_ when he could easily have another.”

“Harry,” his father says softly. “It wounds me to hear you say such things.”

“It is true.”

Mr Weasley shakes his head. “It is _not_. And anyone who has ever met you knows this with certainty. Have you replied to Mr Malfoy’s letter? He _did_ send a letter as well, did he not? He told me he would write to you.”

“He did. I have not responded yet,” Harry admits. “He asked me if he could write, and I said yes, but I was not expecting a present. I don’t know what it means. And if it _does_ mean courtship, I thought he had to ask you first, and I didn’t want you to be mad at him for not doing so. That’s why I said it was from Percy. I was stupid.”

“He did tell me he was considering a courtship, but before he made a formal request, I made it clear I was not opposed, but that it was _your_ decision entirely. I did not expect him to send a present either, but I believe it was harmless. And you do not have to respond to this letter now if you are not ready,” his father says. “You do not have to ever write to him or speak to him again if you–”

“I don’t want that,” Harry protests. “I am just afraid, Papa. I don’t know what to do.”

They are silent for a time, contemplating the rain.

“I courted your mother for over a year before asking your grandfather for her hand,” Mr Weasley finally says.

“Were you unsure?”

Mr Weasley shrugs. “Perhaps. I cannot quite remember. It has been such a long time. But we were both young, and there was no shame in taking the time to know one another. I was certainly intimidated, however,” he adds with a laugh. “Your mother had scared many suitors away. And I believe your grandfather was relieved when I finally proposed. She can pretend you are a lost cause as much as she wants, but perhaps she is not one to talk.”

Harry cannot help but laugh at this. “Did you ever regret it, marrying her?” he asks curiously.

His father shakes his head at once. “ _Never_. I know that we bicker often, and we disagree, but I assure you, Harry, that I would never have been as happy with another woman as I have been with your mother. I have never known a boring day in my life with her by my side. And boredom is the death of love. For men like you and I, at least. For dreamers. There are so many dreary things in the world already, why settle for a dreary marriage as well? How many times have other men told me to keep my wife’s temper in check, do you think?”

Harry grins. “Countless times, surely.”

“Yes, countless times. But I would not change her for all the gold in the world. I believe the perfect spouse is the one who accepts you as you are and would never have you otherwise. Mr Malfoy is gallant and kind and proper, yes, but is he the sort of man to let you be yourself? Would he allow you to speak freely, to think, to live the way you would want? Would he take you with your good days and your bad days and all that you are, not only the parts that he finds pleasing?”

“I don’t know,” Harry can only reply, in all honesty. “I believe he would, but–”

Before Harry can find it in himself to say anything more, his father reaches out to take his hand, squeezing it tightly. Mr Weasley’s face is serious, and there is not a hint of amusement or softness in his eyes now. If Harry did not know better, he would think his father to be holding back tears, and when he speaks again, it is carefully, with the utmost importance.

“If you _do_ accept a courtship from Mr Malfoy, I would ask you to study his character thoroughly. And if you are not perfectly, entirely certain that his intentions are true and that he would treat you well, better than anyone else could, I would beg you to refuse whatever offer he presents to you. Because there is nothing in the world that would break your poor father’s heart more than to see you hanging onto a man’s arm, speechless and subdued and unhappy.”

“I promise you to be careful, Papa,” Harry says softly, quite taken aback by such emotion. “I would never want to cause you pain. At present, I have no intention to marry anyone, I assure you.”

Shortly after, Harry leaves his father to his papers and his business and retreats into his bedroom, where he falls on his bed and stares at the ceiling for a long time.

He finds himself thinking about Mr Malfoy, about the first time they met, and how the man took his wrist, how he unbuttoned his cuff to peer at the naked skin so intimately. He has been thinking about this moment often, and more often still since Mr Malfoy made mention of their first meeting in his letter.

No one had ever touched Harry this way before. It had been so unexpected. He was nearly charmed by it at the time, so pleased that such an elegant man would be worried he might be hurt. But thinking back on it now, Harry realises it can be interpreted in an entirely different way. If _he_ had been the one to witness this interaction, he would have noticed how untoward, how inappropriate it was. Particularly coming from a stranger, and particularly in public. And Cormac had not grasped Harry’s wrist tightly enough, nor violently enough, to possibly leave a mark or injure him. Did Mr Malfoy think Harry so delicate that the simple, sudden grasp of a wrist would leave him wounded? It then occurs to Harry that perhaps Mr Malfoy was not worried about him after all, but that he only touched his wrist because he _wanted_ to touch it. And that, if it is the case, is completely inappropriate. In Harry’s mind, at least. And now, when he thinks back to this moment, he feels shame at having allowed Mr Malfoy to touch him so.

He hurries off the bed and rushes to his desk, where he retrieves Mr Malfoy’s letter, tucked underneath a pile of papers, away from view.

_…it is not in my nature to leave the vulnerable and defenceless to their own means,_ the man writes. And then, _It never ceases to anger me how some gentlemen take pleasure at preying on Omegas, for they are helpless and cannot properly defend themselves. I believe they are precious and rare and should be cherished and protected, but unfortunately very few men seem to share this opinion._

Harry reads these sentences over and over again, and he feels a sort of warm anger form in his ribcage. How did he not notice this before, when he first read the letter? He must have been too troubled by the accompanying present to truly pay the words any attention.

Is _that_ what Mr Malfoy thinks of Omegas? Is that how the man sees _him_? As a vulnerable and defenceless creature who is helpless and cannot defend himself and must be rescued? As precious and rare? To be cherished and protected? Is that _truly_ what the man thinks? If it is, does Harry really want to accept a courtship from a man of such opinions? Of course, he would not want to be treated badly, but does he truly want to one day be married to a man who believes him helpless and unable to fend for himself?

Harry thinks back on what his father said. Would Mr Malfoy truly let him be? Would Mr Malfoy tolerate him if he were to notice that Harry is not defenceless and vulnerable and not willing to let himself be so in order to please anyone, not even his husband?

His husband. The more Harry thinks on it, the more he realises that however charming, however handsome and gallant and kind Mr Malfoy is, the thought of ever marrying him is terrifying. The thought of marrying anyone or belonging to anyone is more than he can bear.

He spends most of the day trying to reply to the letter but cannot find the words.

It rains again the following day, and Harry spends most of it reading out on the porch. Or rather _trying_ to read, for his mind has been wandering since that conversation with his father and the realisations that followed. He is staring out absently at the rain, the book opened and forgotten on his lap, when he catches sight of a silhouette on the road. He recognises Hermione at once. She carries a large umbrella and is hurrying towards the house.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when she is close enough to hear. “Did something happen?”

“Good afternoon to you as well,” she greets as she climbs the stone steps, lowering her umbrella and shaking the water from it as soon as she is safely out of the rain.

She seems nervous and is avoiding his eyes. Perhaps she has seen him the other day, hiding in the trees and brambles while she was having tea with Cormac. He would be tempted to be irritated with her for it, but he does not quite have the heart to, not today. Her arrival is most opportune, in fact. He truly wants to know what she thinks of all this Mr Malfoy business.

“Good afternoon,” he says instead. “I did not expect you to walk all the way here in this weather, but I am glad that you came. I would like to ask–”

“Before you say anything, I have some news,” she reveals. “I had to see you myself, before you heard it from someone else.” At last, she meets his eye and announces, with some determination, “Cormac McLaggen and I are engaged.”

Harry snorts with laughter but realises immediately afterwards that she is serious. “Engaged?” he repeats, the smile frozen on his lips.

“Yes,” Hermione says firmly.

“To be married?”

She sighs in irritation. “Yes, of course to be married. What other kind of _engaged_ is there? Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she hisses. “There is no reason why I shouldn’t be as happy with him as with any other.”

He glares at her. “I can think of quite a few reasons.”

“Harry, _don’t,_ ” she warns with gritted teeth.

“What about Ron?”

Her expression turns even colder. “What about him?”

“He loves you!”

“Oh, _does_ he?”

Harry narrows his eyes at her. Is she truly so blinded? “Of course, he does.”

“Then _why_ has he never said so? Why is he wandering about London with that idiotic girl?”

“Because he is Ron!” Harry exclaims. “He is an idiot. He will come to his senses one day. You cannot marry Cormac! He is vile!”

“He is _not_ vile!” Hermione replies furiously. “You are prejudiced against Alphas, Harry. You always think the worst of them.”

“He attacked me in the street!”

“He did not! He told me how you acted with him, how you set an officer on him when he only wanted to talk to you–”

Harry is trembling with anger now. “I did no such thing! And he wanted much more than to talk to me, but how would you know? You were not there! He grabbed me and would not let go! I set no one on him, Mr Malfoy merely intervened so that Cormac would leave me alone. He has been harassing me, as you well know, for years! He came here while I was… while… You were there that time! Ginny told me he came lurking about when I was ill. He is vile! How can you be so stupid as to believe that he–”

“I am _not_ stupid!” Hermione cries out furiously, shaking with anger.

“You are if you truly believe that he is interested in you!” Harry shouts.

Hermione’s eyes are filled with tears, and for a moment, Harry fears she might hit him. “ _Why_ are you so surprised?” she demands, her voice trembling. “Do you think it so unbelievable that anyone would be interested in me?”

“Of course not! That is not what I meant at all,” he says more softly. “But Cormac is not interested in you, Hermione. Only last week, he was following me around, implying that–”

“Is _that_ it then? You think it unfair that he would set his sights on someone else after being unsuccessful with you? Were you hoping that he would try again?”

Harry pauses, truly shocked that she would think such a thing. “Certainly not! I want nothing to do with him. I only mean that you deserve better, Hermione.”

“Not all of us can afford to be romantic,” she says dryly. “I don’t see anyone else waiting to propose to me.”

He stares at her for a time with disbelief. “Are you serious? You are barely twenty-one years old! Have you already lost all hope? Are you truly going to accept Cormac because you think there will never be another suitor? Do you think so lowly of yourself? As your friend, I cannot let you–”

Hermione laughs sharply, a cold, bitter sound. “As my _friend_? Forgive me, but you have not been acting as a friend does lately. When is the last time you visited me? When is the last time you truly took the time to talk to me rather than complain and ramble on about your sorry life? You are selfish, Harry, and a terrible friend.”

“ _How_ can you say that?”

She is crying openly now, but Harry is so angry he cannot find it in himself to feel guilty. “You are not alone in the world,” she hisses through her tears. “Others have fears and troubles as well. When have you ever asked about mine?”

“I _have_ asked about yours!” he accuses. “But every time, you get upset and cold and you will not speak to me for days! I don’t know _how_ to talk to you!”

“Then _don’t_ talk to me at all!” she shouts before turning on her heels and running away into the rain, struggling with her umbrella.

He watches her until she disappears around the bend in the road, furious and trembling. Has this really just happened?

“Harry?” a voice says softly behind him, and his father’s hand settles steadily on his shoulder. He must have heard it all, of course, through the opened window of his study.

Harry turns to look at him. “Did you know about this?” he croaks, his voice raw with the anger.

The look on his father’s face is proof enough. “I did, but Hermione wanted to inform you herself. I doubt she expected the announcement to–”

Harry laughs dryly. “Was she really expecting me to be delighted and wish her joy?”

Mr Weasley frowns. “Is that not what one expects from a dear friend?”

“Papa,” Harry protests, although he already feels guilt seeping through his fury. “You cannot truly think that her marrying Cormac is acceptable!”

“The actions of others are sometimes out of our control, Harry.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? I have been met with so many instances of disappointment lately, but I believe Hermione’s engagement is the worst of them yet! The more I see the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it,” Harry continues, uncaring that he may sound like a whining child. “And every day confirms my belief that all characters are profoundly inconsistent, and that the appearance of merit or sense simply cannot be trusted.”

Mr Weasley sighs helplessly. “Cormac is the mayor’s son. In spite of all their faults, the McLaggens are reputable. And Hermione is steady and prudent. She would not venture in such a marriage if she had any doubts about Cormac.”

“ _How_ could she not have doubts about him when being aware of how he has treated me for years, Papa? You _must_ convince her father to stop it!”

“Willem trusts his daughter to be able to make her own decisions, just like I trust you. Thus, he will not forbid it, if it is truly what she wants,” Mr Weasley says, before softening his voice with reassurance. “However, he has postponed the wedding until spring. He believes it is time enough to avoid unpleasantness, if she should change her mind.”

Harry sighs, hoping beyond hope that she will. “I cannot believe Hermione truly has any regard for him. He is conceited, pompous, rude and… even dangerous, perhaps. Anyone who marries him cannot possibly have a mind of their own. And it certainly cannot be Hermione. It is not in her nature.”

“Love makes fools of even the best of us,” his father says.

Harry is so unsurprised by such a statement that he cannot help but roll his eyes. “Yes, as you said. But she cannot possibly change her whole principle of integrity for the sake of one individual. And certainly not Cormac McLaggen.”

Mr Weasley slips his arm around Harry’s shoulders reassuringly, and Harry cannot help but lean against him for comfort, thoroughly exhausted all of a sudden.

“If this is truly what Hermione wants, I think you should give them a chance,” his father says gently. “Life is so strange. Who knows? They may be happy together in spite of all. Happiness is what is important in the end. Perhaps Hermione would be good for him.”

Harry shakes his head. “I was under the impression that you didn’t like Cormac, but somehow you seem to be defending him.”

“I have my own selfish reasons for doing so,” Mr Weasley admits. “If he marries Hermione, at least he should leave you alone.”

His father leads him inside the house for some comforting tea, and he adds a few drops of brandy into Harry’s cup while Mrs Weasley is not looking.

Early the following day, the Weasleys are surprised by an unexpected arrival that brings much joy after all the unpleasantness of the last week. Breakfast has not yet been served when one of the town carriages comes to a stop in front of the house, and Harry, alerted by his mother’s shrieks of delight, dashes down the stairs.

_Charlie!_ he thinks at once _. It must be Charlie! Please, please, let it be Charlie!_ he prays as he rushes out of the house, where the rest of his family has already gathered.

It is not Charlie, but Harry is not truly surprised. It would be too good to be true, to have Charlie back at last when he feels he needs him the most. The new arrival, however, is perfectly acceptable, and Harry runs to greet his uncle Gideon, who embraces him at once with a sharp bout of elated laughter.

“Harry! Oh, my boy! How wonderful to see you!” He gasps when Harry pulls away, looking at him thoroughly. “How you have grown! You’re taller than I am!” he exclaims.

It is quite easy to be taller than Uncle Gideon, who is only slightly surpassing Harry’s mother in height. He is a short man, slightly stout perhaps, but vigorous and lively, with the same enthusiasm and energy as his sister, although of a much less nervous disposition. He has an astute and studious mind, and he makes his living by writing books and stories, which is the most notable of all professions, in Harry’s opinion. Uncle Gideon has travelled more than anyone he knows, and always has an amusing tale to tell. He was married once, when he was quite young, but his wife died only a few years later of a sudden illness. However prompted to by his father and his siblings, he has never remarried, claiming that he will never replace his beloved Emma.

While he and Uncle Fabian are twins, they look absolutely nothing alike, for Uncle Fabian is tall, carries himself very elegantly, and is nearly bald, while Uncle Gideon has a head of thick, curly red hair that seems to have never known a comb. Whenever those differences are mentioned, Uncle Gideon laughs heartily and proclaims that it is the uneventfulness of his brother’s life as a barrister that has caused him to lose his hair and his spirit. If one did not know better, they would believe him to be the brother of Harry’s father rather than that of Uncle Fabian, for they are much more similar in character.

“Oh, what a surprise!” Harry’s mother cries out. “What a pleasant surprise, Gideon! Oh, I do hope you are coming to stay! Always running about, never staying put! It is not decent! Stay for a few days at least!” she begs, nearly pushing Harry aside to engulf Uncle Gideon again in a tight embrace. “Oh, how we need the distraction, my dear brother!”

“You know me, Molly. I would never dream of leaving here before you are thoroughly sick of me. At present, however, I come on serious business, on the orders of the General,” he announces, referring to his brother, whom he calls such as a mockery for his stern and sometimes overbearing nature. “He has caught word of our Ginny’s predicament and insists she comes to stay in London until Christmas at the very least. Mable and the girls are eager for her company. In fact, I have been instructed by Caroline to return with Ginny or not to return at all.”

Ginny smiles for the first time in days. “Please, may I go? Papa, will you allow it?”

“Can I go, too?” Harry begs his father at once. “Please, please let me go too!”

“Quiet, both of you!” their mother chastises. “Let us discuss this over breakfast! Oh, Gideon, you must be starving!”

There is hardly any discussing of the matter, for as soon as they are settled at the table, Mrs Weasley launches into a detailed retelling of the whole events of the last month for Gideon to hear, barely allowing anyone else to say a word.

“I do not blame Ginny, for she would have had Mr Longbottom if she could. He is deeply enamoured with her, but I believe he is of a changeable nature, unfortunately. It is through no fault of her own that he has not proposed. But Harry! Oh, it is very hard to think that he might have been married if not for his stubbornness. He received an offer in this very room, and he refused it! And now Mrs Granger’s daughter will be married before him! Oh, Gideon, your arrival just at this time is the greatest of comforts for my poor nerves.”

As soon as she pauses in her rambling to take a bite of her breakfast, Ginny turns to her father. “May I go to London, please?” she asks again. “I promise I won’t be a burden.”

“I have no doubt about that, Ginny,” Mr Weasley says kindly. “And I believe it is a good idea. If your aunt and uncle will have you–”

“Oh, _please_ , can I go too?” Harry interrupts. “I won’t be a burden either! Please let me go to London!”

Mr Weasley sighs heavily. “Harry, we have talked about this–”

“But I am twenty now! You cannot say that I am too young anymore. I _promise_ to be good.”

“Ron is already staying with your aunt and uncle,” his mother intervenes firmly. “And Catherine and Caroline still live at home, and John is meant to return soon. Now with Ginny there as well, we cannot have _everyone_ crowding the house, Harry. No, you will remain here, dear.”

“But Mamma–”

“There will be no more discussing it, young man! Now eat your breakfast and be quiet.”

Harry is irritable from that moment on, fuming at how unfair his life is. It is already uneventful enough with only Ginny at home, now what will he do all by himself? He cannot even visit Hermione, for she is angry with him and he is still very much angry with her. He will certainly not apologise for his reaction to her engagement simply because he needs someone to talk to.

He disappears into his bedroom immediately after breakfast, determined to give everyone the cold shoulder. He spends most of the morning there, sitting by the window to brood, ignoring the laughter and the voices coming from downstairs. He feels so lonely, so abandoned. Even Hedwig is nowhere to be found, probably bothering Winky for scraps down in the kitchens. If only it had been Charlie stepping out of that carriage instead of Uncle Gideon. Charlie would not take Ginny away to London and leave him on his own. Charlie would stay here with him.

“May I come in?”

Harry turns to see Uncle Gideon standing at the top of the stairs, and he shrugs before turning back to the window.

“I have always loved this room,” his uncle says, looking around at the posters and drawings on the walls and ceilings, at the books piled up on the shelves. “It suits you.”

Harry only hums distractedly, following Hagrid with his eyes as he crosses the yard carrying a large armful of chopped wood.

“Harry,” Uncle Gideon says softly, coming to sit in front of him on the window seat. “Do not be angry, child. Your parents only mean to protect you.”

Harry sighs in exasperation. “Protect me from _what_? Are there dangerous wild beasts roaming the streets of London? Is there some sort of plague? Has there perhaps been a prophecy stating that if I ever were to set foot in London, the whole city would become engulfed in darkness?”

Uncle Gideon chuckles at his dramatic statements. “There are no beasts, only people. Good people, bad people. Unpredictable people.”

“Is that why I am a prisoner here? Because other people are unpredictable?”

“You are not a prisoner, Harry. You are free here, more than you know. In London, you would not be allowed to wander without an escort. You would not be allowed to go wherever you want like you do here. Some venues do not allow Omegas inside.”

“I know that,” Harry says softly. “The twins told me I would not be able to see one of their plays, that the theatre would not allow it. But not _all_ of them forbid it,” he insists.

“No, not all of them. I suppose Sadler’s Wells is considered unfit for Omegas–”

“That is completely unfair!”

“I know it is, Harry. I know. And that is but one of the injustices you would face in London. Perhaps that is why your parents want to keep you from the city for the time being. But be patient. They cannot forbid it indefinitely. Now, enough of this brooding. Tell me what you think of this Mr Longbottom business? I would hear about it from an objective mind.”

Harry lets himself be convinced to change the subject and relates for his uncle everything that happened, explaining Mr Longbottom’s nature and Miss Parkinson’s part in the whole scheme.

“He seems to have been a desirable match for Ginny,” Uncle Gideon muses afterwards. “I am sorry it had to end this way. But these things happen so often. A young man such as the one you described so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when unexpected events separate them, so easily he forgets her. It is quite frequent.”

“It was _not_ unexpected events,” Harry assures him. “It was the interference of his friends. I am sure of it. They are determined to persuade him, a young man of independent mind, to think no more of a girl he loves because they think her not rich enough. I never saw a more obvious infatuation than his, and I believe it was growing more and more. He was completely inattentive to other people and so engrossed by her. It was more remarkable every time they met. At his own ball, he offended at least three young ladies by not asking them to dance because he was occupied talking to Ginny. Could there be more obvious proof? I believe he was violently in love with her.”

“Violently in love, you say? Do you _truly_ believe it? That is a doubtful turn of phrase,” Uncle Gideon remarks. “I doubt you can be _violently_ in love after only a few encounters and some dancing.”

Harry groans. “It was only a figure of speech. You always dissect everything I say,” he reproaches, although he is not truly upset at his uncle’s habit.

“I believe all talk of love should be _very_ prudent,” Gideon continues. “Perhaps it is possible to love at once, at first sight, but it happens rarely to us mere mortals. For most of us, it takes time. Time, I believe, is the essence of love. Love grows like a tree that takes roots. Or like weeds in a garden,” he adds poetically, and Harry knows he is in for one of those poetic tirades his uncle loves so much.” You need not always nurture it. It grows all by itself, independent of you or anything else. It starts with a sprout, a tiny invasion that you barely notice amongst the flowers or the vegetables, and you pay no attention to it, because you think it unimportant. It could be a simple blade of grass, no threat at all. But before you know it, when you return to the garden one day, there are weeds everywhere. It is overgrown. And you cannot ignore it anymore. And you may be tempted to try and remove it, but why would you do such a thing? It is beautiful and full of life, and you have no desire to, don’t you?”

“You are rambling, Uncle.”

“Perhaps.” Gideon seems to think for a while, and then he smiles, amused. “I must remember to write this down later. But tidy gardens are uninteresting, are they not?”

Harry grins. “Quite.”

His uncle is silent for a time, observing the world from the small window. “Poor Ginny. I am sorry for her, truly. Because of her disposition, she may not get over it immediately.”

“That is my thought as well, although she believes otherwise.”

“I do hope some time in London will make her feel better. A change of scenery might be of help. And perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.”

Harry sighs. “Perhaps, but I fear she may be eager to go only in the hopes of seeing Mr Longbottom there.”

Gideon hums, contemplating this. “I am convinced Fabian must live in much different a part of London as this gentleman and his friends are staying. And all of my poor brother’s connections are quite common. Infuriatingly so. It is very improbable that they should meet at all unless Mr Longbottom comes to visit her.”

Harry snorts. “Impossible. He is now fully in his cousin’s grasp, and she would certainly not let him visit Ginny.”

“All the better, then. I hope they will not meet at all, so that your sister’s heart has time to heal. But is she not corresponding with the cousin? Surely this young lady will come visit when she learns that Ginny is in London.”

This time, Harry laughs. “Oh, I doubt it. Miss Parkinson would forsake the friendship entirely before setting foot in Gracechurch Street.”

“Oh, but enough about your sister now,” Gideon says gently. “What about you? What about this gentleman your parents told me about?”

“Mr Pettigrew?”

“No, no, not the dreaded notary. The other one, the officer.”

“Oh. Mr Malfoy.”

“Lucius Malfoy,” Gideon acquiesces.

Harry raises a curious eyebrow. “Do you know him?”

“Not personally, but I believe I have heard his name in London before, though I cannot recall on what occasion. From Wiltshire, yes? Your father told me he has expressed an interest in courting you.”

“He has.”

“And your father has also told me that you have doubts.”

“Yes,” Harry says softly.

Uncle Gideon reaches out to take Harry’s hand and pats it gently. “You are too sensible to fall in love merely because you are warned against it, and so I am not afraid of speaking to you openly. I know that your father has expressed the same worries, and I believe that you should be on your guard as well.”

Harry hesitates. “Do you know anything about Mr Malfoy that would be cause for suspicion?”

“Suspicion? No, no, not with certainty. But I know of his want of fortune.”

“I care not for this, Uncle.”

Gideon smiles. “I know you do not, dear child. I have nothing to say against the gentleman. From what I have heard, he is very gallant and respectful of you, and he is a most interesting man. If he had fortune enough, he ought to be perfect for you, and for himself I believe he could do no better than you.” He hesitates for a moment. “But allow me to ask, have you spoken to him of this inheritance of yours?”

Harry shakes his head. “No. I have not said a word of it. Father and I agreed that it was best if no one outside of the family knew about it.”

“Good. Good. Keep it that way,” his uncle insists. “It is a dangerous thing for you, you understand that? A young man such as yourself, an Omega, with such a fortune to his name. It could attract… unsavoury characters.”

“Do you believe Mr Malfoy to be one of those?”

“Do _you_?”

Harry looks away, avoiding the man’s curious but careful gaze. “I don’t know,” he admits.” I think perhaps I have misjudged him. I was not expecting him. I was not expecting to meet someone like him and perhaps I was taken by surprise and I let my guard down–”

Uncle Gideon grasps his hand tightly all of a sudden. “He has not done anything to you, has he?” he whispers fiercely.

“No, no,” Harry insists. “No. It is just… something he wrote in his letter. Mr Malfoy is beyond comparison the most agreeable Alpha I have ever met, but… I fear he has the wrong idea of me. Or perhaps the wrong idea of Omegas. I am not sure I agree with his opinions. I fear he has… expectations that I am not willing to fulfil. And for that reason, I will do my best to be on guard from now on. It is difficult, however. He is so full of attentions. I have never received such consideration before.”

“And perhaps he is well aware of that, Harry,” Gideon says carefully. “Perhaps he knows you have not had many interactions with Alphas and is viewing the lack of other suitors as an easy means to an end.”

“To what end?”

Uncle Gideon frowns. “You _know_ what end, child,” he says softly. “But perhaps I am wrong. Or I rather _hope_ I am wrong. Oh, but pay my suspicions no mind,” he adds more lightly. “I tend to be wary of men in general, especially the ones who may want to take my favourite nephew away.” He pauses, then grins. “Do not tell your brothers or your cousins what I have just said.”

Harry laughs. “I promise I won’t. You are my favourite uncle as well.”

“Oh!” Gideon exclaims, feigning surprise. “I will be sure _never_ to tell Fabian! I doubt he would recover from such news.” He stands, stretching his back and looking around the room once again, a grin on his lips. “You know, I believe we should take a trip, just you and I. In the spring. I like to travel when I write, and who knows where my next book will take me?” He lifts an eyebrow. “Yorkshire, perhaps?”

Harry snorts, though the idea is pleasing. “I doubt my father will let me go all the way to Yorkshire!”

Uncle Gideon waves a dismissive hand. “Leave your father for me to deal with. And who knows what will happen before spring? Ah! It is no easy thing, getting old. Time seems to be running from me faster and faster. Now, quit your brooding,” he scolds. “It is unbecoming of you. Come down and watch me absolutely destroy your father at chess.”

* * *

The first time he laid eyes on Prince Manor as a young man, Severus felt, for the first time in his life, that he was truly home. He has never had this profound sense of belonging anywhere else. During childhood, the presence of his mother was enough to offer a sentiment of safety, but after her death, the sense of loss was so acute that he found himself completely disoriented, not only for lack of proper home, but also for lack of a caring parent. There certainly was no comfort or sense of belonging to be found during his brief stay in his uncle’s home, and if he came close to it under Lord Malfoy’s tutelage, Lucius’ presence was sufficient to prevent it. But when he came of age and was allowed to leave Wiltshire and take possession of his late grandfather’s estate, Severus fell in love with it at first sight.

The beautiful manor was built in the late seventeenth century, but Severus’ grandfather was responsible for many alterations and additions to the original house. The conservatory, for instance, was constructed from his own design, and it is this incredible structure of carved stone and glass, adjacent to the main house, that one first notices from the road. It stretches higher than the house itself, and even from a distance, observers can glimpse at all the wonders it contains. The conservatory is not, however, the only additional complemented that Octavius Prince has designed. At the back of the house, he had an entire wall torn down to permit the additional construction of a splendid solarium with a view on the peaceful lake and the forest nearby.

It is there, in that sun filled corner of the house that serves as a parlour, that Julian has established his domain. When he is not shut into his quarters, he can always be found lazing about in there, reading sprawled on one of the sofas, writing at the little desk, and constantly pestering the maids to bring him food and drink. He is sitting at the table, pouring himself some coffee, looking quite dishevelled in a nightshirt and an outrageously purple satin morning gown, when Severus enters.

“Have you just woken up?” Severus asks with exasperation and receives only a shrug and a wide yawn in greeting. “It is well past midday.”

“Oh, don’t _nag_ ,” Julian drawls. “What else is there for me to do but sleep my poor, pointless existence away?”

Severus sighs heavily, removing his riding gloves before sitting down across from him and reaching for the coffee. He will surely need some if Julian is having one of those days where all he does is complain endlessly.

“What day is today?” Julian inquires. “The twenty-first, is it not?"

"The eighteenth."

"Where the devil is my copy of _The Gentleman’s Magazine_? Why has it not arrived yet? Have you forgotten to pay the subscription?”

“I would never dream of it,” Severus mumbles.

“Did Dobby forget to fetch it then? Dobby!” Julian yells, grasping the small bell from the table and agitating it wildly with a strident, deafening noise. “Dobby!”

Severus winces then drains his coffee at once.

A moment later, Dobson rushes into the room, out of breath. The footman stares bitterly at the little bell before addressing Julian. “Sir?”

“Have you forgotten to fetch my magazine?” Julian demands. “Where is it? It should be here by now.”

“I am afraid it has not arrived yet, sir,” Dobson informs him politely. “There must be a delay in the post–”

“A _delay_ ,” Julian whines. “Oh, that was the last thing I needed! Why does this _always_ happen to me? What am I to do until it arrives? What am I to _read_?”

“May I suggest one of the hundreds of thousands of books in my library,” Severus drawls, “which is entirely at your disposal. Thank you, Dobson. You can go,” he tells the footman, who bows slightly before taking his leave.

Across the table, Julian regards Severus with a dark stare, resting his chin on his hand like a pouting child. “I will have you know I am expecting many letters. And I have been eagerly awaiting this magazine for weeks now. I want to know if Mr Urban will publish my letter about that horrendous new translation of the _Iliad_. I am certain many readers will agree with me. I cannot possibly be the only one to have noticed the–”

“Oh, how I wish that I could go _deaf_ ,” Severus snaps, “so that I could one day hear the end of this endless tirade of yours. The book was _published_ , Julian, there is nothing you can do about it now. Why don’t _you_ try to publish your own translation instead of criticising other men’s work?”

Julian huffs moodily. “Those pompous scholars do not deserve my genius,” he declares with a tortured sigh before glaring at him. “And what is wrong with _you_? Are you still heartbroken over your dear _Mr Weasley_?”

“Curse Benjamin for telling you about him,” Severus grunts.

“There was no need for telling, Severus. I could _smell_ him.”

Severus groans, hiding his face in his hands. When he looks up again, Julian is smirking.

“Is he handsome?”

“For the hundredth time, I will _not_ discuss him with you.”

“Why not?” Julian moans.

“Because you are insufferable.”

“Is that not _exactly_ why you should tell me everything? You know I will keep pestering you until you do.”

Severus sighs heavily. Julian is right about that. He has been pestering and questioning and nagging him for over a week now, since that horrible incident of the discovery and prompt destruction of the pillowcase.

“Yes, he is handsome,” he reveals finally.

Julian perks up at once. “More handsome than me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Nonsense,” Julian huffs. He pauses, then asks, “Is he tall?”

“Tall? You have been asking me to tell you about him for days and you want to know if he is tall? What difference does it make?”

“It is an important question. Most Alphas do not like when Omegas are too tall,” Julian says distractedly, pouring more coffee for himself and for Severus as well. “They feel that their Alphaness might be jeopardised by the presence at their side of–”

“That word does not exist.”

“Jeopardise? Oh, it means to–”

“ _Alphaness_ ,” Severus grunts, already feeling a headache forming behind his eyes.

Julian grins. “Oh, it is a very common word in certain circles–”

“I don’t want to know about your _circles_.”

Julian shrugs, taking a large sip of coffee. “The concern about height is quite common, believe me. For instance, I once met a man who–”

“I am not interested in your escapades either, Julian.”

Julian huffs, offended. “Forgive me, oh great paragon of dullness. _Goodness_ , Severus, you are _such_ a spoilsport.”

“He is shorter than you,” Severus finally reveals. He pauses, stares at Julian for a moment. “He looks like you, somewhat. But shorter, yes. And his hair is darker. Black. And his eyes… his eyes are green. And his mouth–”

Julian raises an eyebrow at him over his cup. “You have been staring at his mouth quite a lot, have you? It is good that he is handsome,” he adds before Severus can protest. “You deserve someone handsome. And now I understand why you left me all alone in London for so long. I would rather it was because you were pursuing someone than because you were sick of me.”

“I am _constantly_ sick of you,” Severus rasps.

Julian smiles, knowing he does not mean it, then he shakes his head. “I cannot believe you punched Lucius for him. You never did anything of the sort for _me_.”

“He is not like you, Julian. He has not seen the world, he is… The only term that comes to mind is _innocent_ , but I would never use–”

“What?” Julian interrupts with a grin. “You don’t think I am _innocent_?”

Severus glares at him for a moment, but the jest is quickly forgotten. “I never should have left that town. I should have stayed to ensure that he would not fall into Lucius’ trap. Now there is nothing I can do to prevent it.”

“You could write to him,” Julian suggests. “You tend to be more eloquent on paper.”

Severus snorts. “Benjamin said almost exactly the same thing. Although I think the word he used was _charming_.”

Julian is just about to reply when Dobson enters again, and he gasps at the sight of the footman carrying the much-awaited bundle of letters and newspapers. The conversation is thus over, and Severus only listens as Julian rambles on about his correspondence and that dreaded _Iliad_ translation again, all thought of Mr Weasley already vanished from his mind now that he has other things to occupy himself with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The books that Harry reads is a series by Anglo-Irish writer Laurence Sterne titled _The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman_.
> 
> -The description of Prince Manor is based on Flintham Hall in Nottinghamshire, if you would like to have an idea what the house looks like, but I have made a few alterations, because I don't think it has a solarium.
> 
> \- Julian's beloved magazine, _The Gentleman's Magazine _, is a real monthly periodical that was published from 1731 to 1922. It published stories, essays, poetry and book extracts, but readers could also send in letters to the editor to take part in certain debates.__


	11. deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, as always, life got in the way and I couldn't manage to get this chapter written as fast as I was hoping. I've started school again, but this was also harder to write than I was expecting, which is why it took longer. But I have introduced a new character that I know you will be happy to meet. Also, Severus' part is a little longer this time around, and I hope you will enjoy it. 
> 
> Note that I have made a few changes to the tags, so please read them before you start this chapter, for some of the things that could possibly be triggers are contained in this chapter. Otherwise, happy reading!

* * *

**\- 11 -**

**deception**

* * *

DECEPTION, _s_. [ _deceptio_ , Latin.]

  1. The act or means of deceiving; cheat; fraud.
  2. The state of being deceived.



\- Samuel Johnson’s _Dictionary of the English Language_ , 1756

* * *

_London_   
_18 September 1814_

_Dear Mr Weasley,_

_I am concerned that perhaps you have not received my last letter and I would not want you to believe that I have broken the promise I made to write to you. It was sent on the 11 th, and you should have received it two days later at the most, as I was informed by the clerk at the post office. If you have not received it by now, it may have been lost, which is quite unfortunate, for it was accompanied by a parcel, a set of quills that I purchased at great expense. _

_However, it occurs to me that perhaps you did receive the letter and the accompanying parcel, but that, with this present, I may have unintentionally offended you, which is why you have yet to respond. If that is the case, I am filled with the most terrible guilt, thoroughly distraught and regretful, and I beg you to accept my deepest apology. I would have purchased a more valuable present if I had the means, I assure you, for I believe you deserve the best this world has to offer. But at this time, those quills were the most I could afford, for my stay in the city has been extended and I have had to make more payments to the lodging house than I had originally expected._

_I am to return to Hertfordshire in two days’ time. If the present has caused you grief, I must apologise to you in person. If the letter has simply been lost, I would speak to you regardless, as I wish to discuss with you a matter of great importance. I have been made aware of the existence of a disused old mill not far from Hogsmeade, which I have been told is a beautiful place worth a visit. I would beg you do me the favour of meeting me there this Thursday at midday. Please tell no one, as I would speak to you in privacy._

_Yours,_   
_Lucius Malfoy_

Harry folds the letter again and slips it nervously back into his pocket. It arrived on Tuesday. He retrieved it from the post when he went with Hagrid to accompany Ginny and Uncle Gideon into town, where they caught a coach to London. It is now Thursday, and he has read it so many times that he knows it by heart, can recite it in his head without looking at the wrinkled piece of paper.

He has been sitting under his tree since dawn. The day is beautiful and clear, the sun shining brightly, but there is an unmistakable autumn chill on the air. Perhaps it is this slight breeze making him shiver, or perhaps it is the knowledge that it is nearly midday, and that Mr Malfoy will soon be at the old mill, expecting to meet him there. Perhaps he is even there already.

Harry wraps Charlie’s old coat tighter around his body, and he looks up, all along the length of his beloved beechwood, at the patches of sunlight through the branches. The leaves are already changing, their bright green fading into varying shades of yellow. Soon they will fall, leaving the tree bare and skeletal, vulnerable and unprotected.

For the last two days, since the arrival of the letter, Harry has been filled with such horrible guilt that sleep has been hard to find. He was already remorseful enough for not having replied to Mr Malfoy’s letter, but he never would have thought that the man would interpret this lack of reply in such a way. That he would think Harry so ungrateful and greedy as to be disappointed that the quills were not of a greater value is at once dreadful and infuriating. Is that _truly_ what the man thinks of him? Harry has recalled their every encounter in his mind, trying to remember if he has perhaps inadvertently said something that could be misinterpreted. What could possibly have given Mr Malfoy the impression that Harry is so impertinent as to not appreciate such beautiful quills? But then again, has Harry not brought this upon himself? If only he had replied to the letter, Mr Malfoy would not have come to this conclusion.

He consoles himself with the thought that perhaps this opinion is not strictly directed at _him_. Perhaps this belief that Omegas are capricious and craving of luxuries is only another of the man’s preconceptions about Omegas, the same way he seems to believe that they are all delicate and vulnerable. Or perhaps it only stems from Mr Malfoy’s previous experiences with Omegas. He seems to have been acquainted with many, and those in London may be more frivolous and desirous of expensive presents. Perhaps this Julian, this Omega that he was previously courting, was particularly demanding and Mr Malfoy expects Harry to be the same. Is _that_ why Julian possibly ran away to Mr Snape? Because the man could afford to indulge his whims better than Mr Malfoy could with his meagre fortune?

Nevertheless, Harry is so deeply ashamed that he has told no one about the letter. He would ask Hermione’s advice if he could, but he refuses to visit her, not so long as she does not admit her wrongs in accepting Cormac’s proposal, or comes to her senses and rejects it altogether. He has not said a word to his father either. Perhaps he _should_ , but he expects he would get the same advice as always. _Follow your heart, trust your instincts, you will never be forced into anything you do not want_ … But what _does_ he want? Perhaps he would ask Uncle Gideon’s advice if he could, but it is much too late now.

For the longest time, he had no intention of meeting Mr Malfoy at the old mill as asked, so furious was he that the man would interpret his actions this way. But as time passed, as Harry lost sleep and as the guilt crept in, he began to wonder if perhaps he should, if only to explain the misunderstanding and clear the air. This morning, when he left the house, he had decided not to go, but now that the time is near, he finds himself hesitant. He presses his nose into the collar of the coat, inhaling his brother’s familiar, comforting scent. Charlie would disapprove of this, would dissuade him of meeting with an Alpha, alone, in a secluded place. But Harry has been alone with Mr Malfoy before, that time the man walked him home from town, and he has always been respectful, even when he touched Harry’s wrist so intimately. Yet, something flutters nervously in Harry’s stomach.

 _I wish to discuss with you a matter of great importance_ , the letter says. What matter? If this is not simply about the quills, what more could there be to this meeting? Is Mr Malfoy perhaps planning a proposal? The thought sends a shiver along Harry’s spine. A courtship is one thing, a proposal another entirely. Custom deems it appropriate that the man would seek Harry’s parents’ permission beforehand, but Mr Weasley has already made it clear to him that Harry is free to make his own decisions, and so it is entirely possible that if Mr Malfoy were to propose, he would do it directly to Harry. Perhaps Harry is only imagining things, and this matter of great importance is no proposal at all. But if the man’s affections truly _are_ so ardent already, and if it _is_ an offer of marriage that he intends, Harry owes it to him to hear it, to refuse it respectfully, and to state his reasons for doing so. And better do it in private rather than have Mr Malfoy visit him at home and propose in the middle of the parlour. Harry’s mother would never survive another refusal on his part.

When the time finally comes, Harry gets to his feet, slips his trembling hands deep into the pockets of the oversized coat, and sets off across the field towards the woods. It occurs to him that he is not suited to be seen by anyone, and that his mother would have a fit if she knew he was about to meet Mr Malfoy, clad in these wrinkled clothes, without even a waistcoat. But this does not seem important at present. Harry needs to see the man. He needs to get rid of the crushing weight that has been pressing on his chest for days now. He heads east through the trees, following the same path he always takes. It is hardly a path at all – only a familiar series of twists and turns through overgrown grass and brambles, in between trees and around rocks and roots – but Harry knows it well.

There is no one in sight when he emerges near the old mill, until he walks around it to the other side, near the trail that leads to the road, where the stone wall is crumbling. Mr Malfoy is there, leaning against the trunk of a tree, impeccable as always in his bright red coat. Obviously, he was expecting Harry to come from the road, because he seems almost startled when he catches sight of him coming from the side. Harry immediately notices that his face, as opposed to his clothes, is far from immaculate. As stated in his first letter, the Alpha’s eye is bruised, even a week after the unfortunate incident, and his nose is swollen and slightly crooked.

These injuries are in such stark contrast with the flawless features Harry has come to know that he realises that, perhaps inadvertently, he had come to think of Mr Malfoy as some sort of an invincible figure. Despite all the hardships the man has suffered, despite the betrayals and trials of fortune, still he endures. And his kindness and gallantry, so unexpected, particularly from someone who has encountered so much adversity, made him seem to Harry more like a character from one of his books than a real, living person. But seeing him like this now, all bruised and battered, Harry realises that Mr Malfoy is really just a man after all.

When he looks at Harry, for a moment, for barely an instant, there is something in his eyes that Harry cannot identify, something he has never seen on the man’s face before. After a time, Mr Malfoy’s gaze softens, but still he stares, in silence, with such intensity that Harry is nearly uncomfortable.

“I did not think you would come,” the Alpha finally declares in a humble tone that does not quite correspond with his unwavering gaze.

“I did not think I would either, but I wanted you to know that I received your letter,” Harry reveals at once, eager to dismiss the misunderstanding. “And the parcel as well. But _please_ do not believe that I was offended by your present. The quills are truly beautiful, and I…” He pauses for an instant, uneasy under the man’s scrutiny. “If I did not reply, it is not for the reason you believe. I was simply… You see, I have never had an Alpha show interest before and, even though you wrote that you meant no offense, not that you have given _any offense_ at all,” Harry adds in a rush, “the thought of what this present could mean troubled me… I apologise if my lack of a response wounded you, but I am unused to the attention of suitors, and I simply could not find the words to express this…”

Mr Malfoy’s blue eyes are still locked on him, but the man keeps silent and seems to have no particular desire to speak. For a reason unknown, Harry takes a step back. He is not standing very close to Mr Malfoy to begin with, and yet he takes a step back. The strange fluttering in his stomach is most insistent now, and there is a tightness in his chest. All around them, there is not a sound. Yes, there are the insects and the wind through the long grass and the tree leaves, but somehow everything seems incredibly silent, as if Harry’s ears choose to ignore everything. Everything except for the pounding of his own heart.

“Your present was merely unexpected…” he adds. “Which is why I did not respond…”

He does not say any more, for he is under the impression that not one word that passes his lips is reaching Mr Malfoy’s ears, for the man is not reacting at all, to any of it. He is only staring.

After a while, a long and uncomfortable moment, Mr Malfoy sighs, and a look of annoyance forms on his features, unexpected and unbecoming. “Forget about the wretched present,” he declares, stepping away from the tree and approaching Harry.

Unwittingly, Harry takes another step back, and then another, shocked by the coldness of the words. As Mr Malfoy’s gaze darkens, Harry finally understands that the flutter in the pit of his stomach is not caused by nerves anymore. Neither is the sudden, hurrying pace of his heart. It is _fear_.

“I was willing to play the courting game, for the sake of appearances,” Mr Malfoy continues, his voice a deep, rumbling sound in the stillness. “But my company is leaving Hogsmeade today, and I have no time for games at present.”

“Games?” Harry asks, his mouth dry.

Mr Malfoy smirks. “These little games of yours. Here you are again, acting all coy and proper, but I _know_ what you are, Mr Weasley,” he says almost tenderly, although there is no tenderness to be found in his eyes. “I know your _true_ nature.”

The Alpha’s scent is heavy on the air, even with the breeze, even with the summer smells, but it is not the one Harry has come to know. There is something new mingled with it. Or perhaps it is not new at all, perhaps it was always there to begin with, so discreet Harry never noticed it. It was just a tinge before, but it is growing now. And growing and growing. It is just a scent, and yet it is full of meaning, so evident it could just as well be speaking to him.

 _You are in danger. Run_.

But Harry is frozen in place. His palms are damp and there is cold at the back of his neck. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles.

“Stop pretending. You are an _Omega_ ,” Mr Malfoy says, his voice low and yet so terribly loud no other sound reaches Harry’s ears. “You can try to deny it, but there is only _one thing_ you want.”

Harry’s heart gives a great, violent pound against his ribcage. “I don’t–”

“Do you have any idea how you look?” the Alpha rasps then, devouring Harry with his gaze. “Coming here like this, with your throat uncovered. Looking at me with those eyes. _Reeking_ of another Alpha,” he adds with some disgust. “You are just begging to be–”

“Another Alpha?” Harry croaks, voice trembling, the breath shaking in and out of him heavily.

Mr Malfoy jerks his chin at him almost angrily. “Your _coat_ ,” he snarls.

“It’s… my brother’s,” Harry protests. “Please, you are mistaken–”

“You _pretend_ to be good,” Mr Malfoy says softly. “I know it is expected of you. Poor little Omega, trapped in this miserable town, all alone. You pretend to be good and innocent, because you _have_ to, and I understand that. But you do not have to pretend with me. I know what you want, what you dream about, what you _crave_ ,” he adds, taking a step closer. “I can give it to you, sweetheart. I can make you feel good… feel _whole_ …”

Harry can only stare at the man, wide-eyed and confused, unwilling to believe the words that have just passed Mr Malfoy’s lips. This _cannot_ be happening. _How_ can this be happening? For an instant, it is as if the world stands perfectly still, everything fixed in time. The Alpha’s scent has thickened, so strong Harry can almost taste it.

_RUN!_

Urged by this voice, this silent, desperate voice screaming inside his head, Harry has already taken off running by the time Mr Malfoy launches.

He did not know he had it in him. He did _not_ know he could run so fast before today. Fear pulses inside his body like a second heart, hammering, urging him on, and a moment later, he reaches the tree line and dashes through the woods, running faster than he ever has in his life. No sound is reaching his ears, no sound other than his panting breath and the pounding, pounding, pounding, and the voice screaming _run, run, RUN!_

He is fast, _so_ fast, but the Alpha is close behind. Harry can smell him, can smell his pleasure, the thrill of the chase, the hunger, the _lust_ … He is _so_ close. He is just behind. He is faster!

Harry collapses to the ground roughly, struggling as the man falls on top of him. With an animalistic growl of triumph, Mr Malfoy forces him onto his back, sending dead leaves and dirt and brambles flying. Harry tries to scream, but before he can manage more than a whimper, a large hand is covering his mouth, pressing hard, muffling all sounds.

It is so strange, he realises then. It is all so, _so_ strange. He always thought, his whole life, that if something like this were to happen, he would fight it. He always thought that he would fight and struggle and escape and that everything would be fine. But he is struggling _now_ , he is fighting harder than he ever has, and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ is coming of it. The Alpha is _so_ strong, so much stronger than Harry could have imagined. His body is heavy and solid and immovable. His eyes are shining with lust, his hair dishevelled and his grin sharp and horrible. His hand is so large, covering Harry’s whole mouth and chin. It grips his jaw tightly, and Harry feels it could easily crush his whole skull. There is something hard pressing against his thigh, pulsing, and he lets out a scream. Muffled underneath the Alpha’s hand, it comes out as a long and drawn-out moan of terror.

The Alpha’s unwavering grip forces Harry’s head to the side, and the man presses his face into Harry’s neck, inhaling deeply. “God, you smell… so good…” he rasps. “So… _ripe_ …”

He opens his mouth then, and licks greedily along the length of Harry’s offered throat, dripping warm saliva, teeth grazing Harry’s flesh. Fear, white hot and blinding, shots through Harry. _Charlie!_ he wants to call out. _Charlie!_

_Harry presses his face into his brother’s shoulder, the embrace warm and steady, until Charlie pulls back, lifting his chin so that their eyes meet. “If Cormac ever bothers you again, a good knee to the groin should take care of it,” Charlie tells him with a grin._

Harry struggles to shift his position and then, putting all the strength he can muster behind it, he jerks his knee up roughly. It collides with the growing hardness in the Alpha’s trousers with more violence than Harry thought himself capable of, if the cry that escapes Mr Malfoy’s throat is any indication. The man falls to the side at once, clutching at his groin, nearly howling in pain.

“You little _cunt_!” he shouts in agony.

The curse echoes through the woods, already distant. Harry does not remember jumping to his feet, he only knows that he is running. He is running and running, giving no thought where he is heading, the strange voice urging him to get as far from the _predator_ as possible. He runs, uncaring of the branches and the stumps and the roots, dashing through, leaping over it all, desperate to escape the threatening scent of the Alpha’s arousal. It is only when he stops, exhausted and out of breath and unable to run anymore, that he realises there is no escaping the scent. He is covered with it.

Harry listens, all senses sharp and alert, for _any_ sound, but there is only the wind and the insects. He jerks around at a movement, just in time to see a squirrel scurrying up a tree. He cannot hear the Alpha. There is no cursing or shouting or cries of pain, no sound of pursuit. He does not know how far from the man he has managed to run. He could have been running for hours or only seconds. Still his heart pounds, still the voice urges him to run, to keep running until he is home, until he is safe. The Alpha could still find him! _Quick!_

Harry hurries through the trees, panting, struggling to find his breath again. There is wet on his cheeks, and he realises he is not only panting, but sobbing heavily, and he tries to be silent, but he cannot. He tries to stop crying, because the Alpha could _hear_ , but he is unable to. The sobs come of their own volition, escaping his throat in great, burning throbs of pain.

For an instant, panic sets in, and Harry realises he recognises nothing. There are no familiar trees, no heaps of branches or moss-covered rocks he can use to find his way. There is only green and leaves and looming trees and weak, stray beams of sunlight peeking through it all. And then he spots a lightness in the trees, a spot of wildflowers in the distance, and he runs towards it. Out of breath, his sobs of fear and panic now also filled with relief, Harry emerges into the field, into the knee-high grass and the bright sunlight.

He catches sight of the silhouette at once, all the way across the field. Standing under his beloved tree. And he stops in horror.

 _How_ could it be? How could the Alpha have made his way so far ahead when he was so far behind? It is impossible! It _cannot_ be! But then he realises it is _not_ the Alpha. There is no shining white hair, there is no red coat. There is a blue coat, and bright red hair... Yes, the silhouette standing across the field is a familiar one, but it is certainly not Mr Malfoy’s. It is one Harry would know anywhere, even at such a distance, and yet he remains rooted in place, because it cannot be _him_ either. It is impossible…

Harry watches in disbelief. The man is standing there, looking at his surroundings, one moment staring up at the bright, cloudless sky, and then glancing around the treeline, as if waiting for something, or _someone_. When he finally happens to turn in Harry’s direction, he pauses, and he raises both arms high, waving. There is a muffled yell, distant but unquestionably joyous, “Harry!”

It is as if Harry’s heart starts beating again, and he bolts through the grass at once. “ _Charlie_!” he cries out.

It must be the urgency that alerts his brother, or the distress that Harry does not quite manage to dispel from his shout, the way it cuts through the quaintness of the surroundings so sharply, desperate even to his own ears. Charlie starts running as well, and when he is close enough, Harry sees that his face – which should be smiling at their happy reunion – is etched with worry and fear. Charlie opens his arms and Harry leaps into them, clutching at his brother. The shock sends them both tumbling to the ground, the fall softened by the thick, long grass, and at once, an embrace, strong and warm, envelops Harry. He tries to speak but finds he is unable to. He can only hold onto Charlie tighter and tighter, gasping and crying and laughing all at once.

Charlie takes his face in both hands, staring at him closely, his eyes filled with worry. There is no doubt in Harry’s mind that his brother can smell the Alpha on him. And his own fear, surely, is just as pungent. The fear of what might have happened, of what _almost_ happened.

“Are you hurt? Did he _hurt_ you?”

Still unable to speak, Harry shakes his head, and with a great, violent sob, he hides his face into Charlie’s neck, letting the warm, familiar scent fill his nose and calm the furious pounding of his heart. He inhales Charlie’s scent deeply, smelling his fill, trying to replace the heady scent of the Alpha’s arousal with this one. It would be quite rude if it were anyone another than Charlie, but his brother only holds him tighter.

“I am here,” he mumbles into Harry’s hair. “You’re safe now. No one will hurt you.”

Harry lets himself be held, listening to the mumbled reassurances and his brother’s strong, steady heartbeat. Charlie’s presence, so warm and solid, and his scent, so familiar and _safe_ , soothe his fear until, eventually, Harry can breathe again without sobbing.

Slowly but surely, Harry can hear the world again. The sound of the wind through the long grass, the peaceful chirps of the birds, the cicadas. The grass is cold underneath him, but Charlie is warm. Charlie is always warm. Harry concentrates on that. The danger has passed. The urgent, screaming voice inside his mind has quietened. _You are safe now_ , it whispers.

He is safe. Charlie is here now. As strange as it seems, Charlie is here…

“Was it _him_? Was it _Malfoy_?” his brother asks, in the trembling voice of someone trying not to shout.

Harry, his throat raw and painful from crying, can only whisper. “How do you know?”

Charlie sighs, the breath going in and out of his chest shakily. “Your letter.”

Harry pulls away to look at his face again. There are scars that were not present before. Small ones that do nothing to mar Charlie’s features but are sufficient to indicate how much time has passed. His fiery red hair is longer and slightly dishevelled, curling over his ears, and he has grown quite a thick beard, but his face, however, is just the same. The kind, hazel eyes, the multitude of freckles, the curve of his brow, of his lips, is the same.

It has been two whole years since Harry has last seen this face. Two years since Charlie has come home, shortly after being promoted to Captain, and only for a week or so, too briefly, before leaving again. It is just the same, but he finds it now set in angry determination. _This must be his soldier face_ , Harry thinks, nearly shocked at the coldness he sees there. A moment later, however, the features soften, and Charlie reaches out to wipe the remaining tears from Harry’s cheeks, his hands warm and gentle.

“Do you know him?” Harry mumbles, leaning into the touch. _Oh, how he has missed Charlie…_

Charlie shakes his head. “I have never met him, but I heard rumours from other soldiers,” he explains, pushing a curl of hair away from Harry’s face. “They say he is deceitful and cruel, and he… he collects Omegas. He seduces them and leaves them in disgrace. When I read his name in your letter… and what you wrote about him, I knew I had to come back. I left the hospital and–”

Harry gasps, pulling away in alarm, terrified that he may have hurt Charlie when he fell on top of him. “Your wound! Are you–”

“No, no, I am fine,” Charlie assures him at once. “But I would have returned regardless. I _knew,_ the instant I read that he was here, that he would set his sights on you, and I… I could _not_ let that happen! Not to _you_. But when I got home today, and you were not there… And Father told me that he had been writing to you, that he thought of _courting_ you. I searched for you at once. And when I could not find you… I just knew… I _knew!_ ” He pauses, breathes in shakily. “I will kill him. I swear to God, I will bloody _kill_ that man for laying his hands–”

“Don’t,” Harry interrupts. “Don’t try to confront him. Please, I don’t want you to get hurt–”

“I would not–”

“He said his company is leaving today. He will be gone soon–”

“Harry–”

“Don’t tell Papa!” Harry pleads. He cannot bear the thought of what his parents would say if they were made aware of this, particularly his father, after everything he warned Harry about. Would he go after Mr Malfoy himself? And if he _did_ , could it not cause more trouble than it is worth? Or would he be angry at Harry for falling so easily into the trap laid out for him? Would his father not reproach him his own stupidity at meeting the man in secret? “I don’t want him to know. Please don’t tell him!”

“Harry,” Charlie insists sternly, “that man _must_ be held accountable. How many others could–”

Harry shakes his head stubbornly. “Please, _please_ , don’t say anything! It was all my fault. I should have known he was lying to me. I was stupid not to know. I was stupid to let him fool me. And I never should have met him today. I should have known all along–”

“Stop,” Charlie says almost coldly. “Stop this! It is _not_ your fault! You don’t want me to tell Father, then I won’t, but I will _not_ have you thinking that you are to blame for this! I will not! Stop this nonsense,” he finishes more softly.

Harry says nothing. He feels like crying again, but he manages not to. He is tired of crying, tired of being angry, of being afraid. He feels nauseous, his heart stuck in his throat. He hides his face in Charlie’s neck again.

His brother holds him tight, runs a soothing hand up and down his back. “Are you _certain_ you’re not hurt?”

Harry sighs heavily. “I am fine… I think he is more hurt than I am.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I remembered what you said, years ago. A good knee to the groin,” he recalls.

Despite the severity of the circumstances, Charlie snorts out a laugh. “That would do it, yes… You are so brave, little brother,” he says fondly.

“I’m not brave,” Harry mumbles. “I want to go home, but I don’t want them to know. I don’t want _anyone_ to know, only you. I want to forget that it happened… I don’t want it… _any_ of it…”

“I won’t tell, I promise you.”

“I feel sick. I can’t breathe… The scent is everywhere… He _licked_ my neck. I thought he was going to bite me…”

“You’re safe now,” Charlie repeats softly. “Come. Let’s go home.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Harry chokes out. “I can’t go home! They will know…”

“They won’t. They won’t know. Come.”

He stands, and when he tries to pull Harry to his feet, Harry obeys reluctantly. He would be perfectly content to stay here for the rest of the day, in the peaceful stillness of his field, amongst the sunlight and the wildflowers. He would stay here with Charlie all day if he could. And perhaps he could even forget everything else. Forget that Charlie ever left. Forget everything that has changed since they last saw each other. Forget having even met Mr Malfoy.

Slowly, they head in the direction of home. Charlie keeps his arm wrapped safely around him, and Harry rests his cheek on his brother’s shoulder as they walk, leaning heavily onto him, unwilling to be away from his scent for too long, because the other Alpha’s overpowering, heady scent is still there, lingering, threatening to cloy his throat again.

“You still wear that old thing,” Charlie remarks, grinning at the familiar coat Harry has clad himself into this morning.

 _Your coat_ , Mr Malfoy had snarled coldly.

“He said I smelled like another Alpha,” Harry mumbles, his face half buried in Charlie’s shoulder. “He was angry. He thought I meant to provoke him. But I didn’t think of that… I didn’t _know_ … I have my own, and it is warmer, but I like this one better because it smells like you…” He trails off. He is so tired all of a sudden. He wants to be in bed and sleep for days.

“I know. It wasn’t your fault,” Charlie says again, tightening his embrace.

“I can’t believe you’re back. You’re _truly_ back… I missed you,” Harry adds, smiling tiredly. He feels he would fall to the ground if Charlie were not here. He would fall to the ground and remain there and never stand up again.

“I missed you so,” Charlie says, a tremor in his voice. “Look at _you_. I barely recognise you. You are all grown up…”

 _Grown up_. Harry knows what this truly means. Changed. Matured. Of _breeding age_ , as Bertrand once said. Because of course, Charlie would know. He would have noticed the change in Harry’s scent, so subtle even the most sensitive Betas can hardly tell, because it is not meant for _them_. Alphas, however, know it at once. Because nature is cruel and has decided to provide no hiding place for Harry. Without his permission, his body proclaims it for any Alpha to know.

“I don’t want to be grown up,” Harry mutters.

Charlie sighs heavily. “Come over here.”

They have reached the overgrown path leading home, but Charlie pulls him to the side, near the creek. He bends and gathers water into his cupped hands, lifting it carefully as he stands.

“It’s cold,” he warns before pressing his hands to Harry’s neck and rubbing the water into his skin.

Harry gasps but does not pull away. Instead, he bends down as well, and does the same, washing his throat with the fresh water to try and rid himself of the cloying scent.

“Get some mud too, perhaps,” Charlie suggests, and Harry obeys, smearing his throat with cold mud, wincing as he does so. “Don’t get it on your clothes or Mother will never let you hear the end of it.”

Harry does his best to rinse the dirt, and along with it, all traces of the Alpha’s saliva. Afterwards, he is shivering, but the scent is nearly all gone. There are just tinges of it, possibly from Harry’s clothes.

“Can you still smell it?” he asks his brother.

Charlie sniffs the air briefly. “Yes, but not so much as before. Mother and Father won’t be able to tell. Do you feel better?”

“A bit.”

“Come now then,” Charlie says softly. “Let’s go home.”

When they arrive, their mother, oblivious as always, is too preoccupied scolding Charlie for leaving so suddenly when he has barely just returned from a two-year absence – insisting that there was no need to go look for his brother, as he always returns home for food – to notice anything wrong with Harry despite his dishevelled appearance.

“Is that _mud_ on your shirt?” she shrieks. “Go and change out of these clothes at once! I will not have you walking around all rumpled and untidy. And _you_!” she accuses, narrowing her eyes at Charlie. “Will you please shave that awful beard? You are not in France anymore! Oh, these children! No regard for my poor nerves!”

* * *

There is a chill on the air, the morning misty and damp. The overcast sky brightens a little more with each moment, but the sun is unsuccessful as it tries to pierce through the canopy of clouds to the east. As usual, Severus has sought refuge in his favourite place, near the quiet pond at the edge of the moors. He leans on a large, mossy rock while his companion lingers near the water. He has brought a book this morning, a small tome that he had to rummage through the whole library all afternoon yesterday to find, but he is not reading it. It is tucked safely inside his coat, a reassuring weight over his heart. 

Severus has always been fond of solitude. It has been so since childhood, particularly after his mother’s death, and it was when he first arrived in Wiltshire, newly orphaned, that he began wandering away on his own at dawn. At first, Lord Malfoy would constantly send servants out on the hills and in the woods to look for him, worried that he would get lost, until he understood that it was just in Severus’ nature to seek isolation, and trusted that the boy would be careful. According to Julian, however, this habit of his, of disappearing into the wilderness for hours on end, is getting worrisome. _It is not solitude_ , he claims, _it is ceaseless brooding_. Of course, Julian would not understand. He despises the outdoors with a passion, and he despises being alone even more. But Severus is never _truly_ alone on these expeditions, for he has Heracles to keep him company.

Severus watches as the horse grazes peacefully, taking large, greedy mouthfuls of the long grass that grows near the pond, and he smiles. He purchased Heracles almost twenty years ago, when the horse was still a young foal, a beautiful bay thoroughbred with a promising pedigree, and Severus himself was a young man with too much time and money on his hands and a mild interest in horse racing. This interest, however, quickly grew into a passion, with Heracles winning race after race for nearly two decades. Sometimes Severus is under the impression that Heracles appreciates these morning strolls more than _he_ does. Heracles is quite old now, and Severus would not want to tire him with long travels, but perhaps the horse is growing a little weary of spending so much time in his stall. Perhaps he secretly longs for the thrill of his days at the races.

“What a glorious life you have lived, old boy,” Severus remarks. “And how horrendous the knowledge that a horse has perhaps had more joy than I have,” he adds with a sigh.

As if in response, Heracles huffs but he doesn’t lift his head, not even when Severus approaches to stroke his flank. He continues eating, unconcerned with the man’s woes.

Severus’ early morning ventures into isolation may be nothing new, but Julian is right about one thing. He _has_ been in a particularly sombre mood of late, there is no denying it. And the cause of this misery is far from arduous to identify. It is, of course, Mr Harry Weasley.

It is Harry Weasley’s otherworldly eyes that have been haunting Severus’ dreams every night. _When_ he manages to fall asleep, that is. Most often, he lies awake for hours, staring at the canopy, remembering each time he has been in the young man’s presence and imagining all the ways he could have acted differently, all the pleasant things he could have said to him instead of staring wordlessly or outrightly insulting him.

“I am a coward, Heracles,” Severus reveals, earning another disinterested huff in response.

His whole life, Severus has always been given everything he desired. If he needed clothes, his uncle procured them for him. All the latest fashion, of course, and the best quality. Because it is expected of a respectable gentleman to look good, and it is expected even more of Lord Riddle’s nephew. All the books he wanted, he obtained – he only needed write a letter, and they arrived within a fortnight. If he wanted a new watch, it was ordered for him from the best watchmakers. Severus had never lacked anything, except perhaps a place to truly call home, but even this was given to him when he came of age. Along with a fortune large enough to sustain him for the rest of his life. Without doing anything to deserve it. And with this fortune, he has acquired everything he has ever wanted afterwards, relieved at not having to rely on his uncle any longer. He has bought racing horses and foxhounds and carriages. He has filled his home with books and furniture and pieces of art. He has turned the conservatory into a place of unrivalled beauty. Yes, Severus Snape has everything a man could possibly want. And yet.

And yet most nights he cannot sleep. And when he does, he dreams of green eyes and a soft voice reciting Dante. He dreams of dark, tousled hair and flawless skin. And sometimes, yes _sometimes_ , he dreams of a scent impossible to forget, and of a pale throat he would kiss before sinking his teeth into. And during his morning wanderings, he thinks of a boy walking the moors at dawn, in a lost town nearly half a world away. He thinks of this boy and what he could be doing at this very moment. Is he still as lively and stubborn and perfect as when Severus last saw him? Or has he yet been cruelly deceived and betrayed? Is he now broken-hearted and abandoned? Has Lucius Malfoy extinguished the fire in his eyes?

Severus has imagined the events in every way possible, in great detail, to the point of torture. Has Mr Weasley willingly succumbed to Lucius’ advances, believing the man’s promises of pure love as genuine? Because of course, Lucius would say _anything_ to get his way, and in such charming words that anyone not familiar with his deceptive nature would believe earnest. He would lie and cheat and promise this boy the world if only to bed him for one night and then disappear, never to be heard from again, with not a single regret, not a morsel of guilt for the damage he may have caused.

This possibility, however, does not seem fitting of Mr Weasley, whom Severus knows is wary in nature. He doubts flatteries and expensive gifts would be enough to cajole this young man. Mr Weasley has a sharp mind and a keen sense of observation. There is hope that he would see through Lucius’ intentions and keep a safe distance. Or perhaps Severus only _wishes_ it were so.

The alternative is equally as painful to consider. If Mr Weasley _has_ been clever enough not to be deceived, perhaps Lucius’ patience has worn thin, as it sometimes does, and he has simply taken what he wanted, to spare himself the effort of playing at courtship. Severus refuses to consider this likelihood for very long, for it induces in him such a rage that he barely knows how to overcome. It wounds him to think that Mr Weasley may have succumbed to the deception, but if he has not, and if Lucius took him regardless…

 _I will let you know how it feels to knot him_ , the voice repeats ceaselessly in Severus’ mind.

And what will the people of Hogsmeade think of this, of this young Omega forcibly taken and then abandoned, with all possibility of marriage ruined? The townsfolk already seem barely tolerant of him, and this added taint will only make matters worse. Because they _will_ see it as a taint. They will not care that the young man was forced or deceived. They will think what most ignorant people think – that, by his very nature, he was asking for it, that this is _all_ Omegas want, truly. That it was inevitable and bound to happen and that there is no need to feel any outrage for what Mr Weasley has lost. And Severus cannot imagine how lonely he will be afterwards. Forced to live the rest of his life with his parents in this strange house of theirs, shunned forevermore.

“I would have him regardless,” Severus mutters, for Heracles’ ears only. “I would take him away and I would marry him. And I would love him.”

Heracles huffs again, and finally lifts his head to nudge Severus gently, as if approving the words, before returning to his grazing.

Severus fetches the small copy of Dante’s _Inferno_ from his pocket. He has marked the page and read it many times since yesterday, trying to remember the cadence of Mr Weasley’s voice as he read the words, the way his lips formed them. _We then alone, without suspicion were, to admire each other, often from the book our eyes were taken, and often our colour changed_. _That was the point of time which conquered us…_

Severus sighs heavily. This is the right word, is it not? He has been _conquered_. He has been thoroughly and completely and inadvertently conquered by Harry Weasley.

He shuts the book and slips it back into his coat, away from sight, before taking a hold of Heracles’ bridle. “Shall we go home now, old friend?”

Docilely, Heracles lets himself be led away and mounted, and they are soon galloping through the countryside on their way home, the fresh, misty wind embracing them.

Later, when Severus enters the house after having seen Heracles safely to the stables, he is greeted at the door by Dobson, who hands him a letter.

“From Mr Fenwick, sir. It has just arrived.”

Severus thanks him and, having awaited its arrival for days, unfolds the letter at once.

_London_   
_22 September 1814_

_Severus,_

_I have it on good authority that your dear friend Lucius has now departed Hertfordshire. My nephew Thomas – surely you remember him from that unfortunate ball at the Rookwoods’ – is now a captain in the militia, and following some gathering in London, claims that Lucius’ company has been ordered to leave the county and head to Norfolk. Moreover, I have sought information from a gentleman I am acquainted with, whom is himself acquainted with people in Hatfield, located near Hogsmeade, and there has been no talk of any trouble with the militia in any of the surrounding towns. I believe if Lucius had gotten into any misdeeds, rumours would have spread by now, as they do. There is hope yet that your young man is unscathed. I hope this will provide you some peace of mind._

_Do tell Julian that I have asked around about Miss Rowle, as he has so vehemently insisted, and there seems to be no talk of marriage. I have, however, been informed that a certain Mr Spencer has been seen at Brooks a few days ago, drunkenly recalling how he was rudely escorted from the premises the last time he set foot in Lord Rowle’s house. I do hope this information is enough to satiate Julian’s curiosity. Please tell him to stop writing._

_Benjamin_

Severus follows the sounds of the pianoforte and finds Julian in the parlour, engaged in a sombre but beautiful piece. He halts in the middle of the room, staring at the young man in disbelief.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you, in fact, _fully dressed_?”

Julian looks better than he has in days and is dressed more formally than he probably has been in weeks. For once, he wears trousers, and he has chosen a beautiful velvet waistcoat in burgundy red, with a silk cravat intricately knotted around his throat, and an elegantly tailored black coat. His hair, which usually falls around his face in a dishevelled mess, has been combed back into perfect waves.

Without interrupting his playing, he throws Severus a dark glare. “Have you forgotten that we are to receive visitors shortly? Do you expect me to meet them in my nightshirt?”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “I have _not_ forgotten, no. But I was under the impression, following your outburst of last evening, that you had no desire for visitors, that you would refuse to see them and that you would spend the next week confined to your quarters in protest.”

Julian shrugs, his fingers moving deftly over the keys. “I have changed my mind,” he announces.

“So it seems.” Severus lets out a deep sigh but decides not to argue or question the matter, used as he is to Julian’s unpredictable mood. “A letter from Benjamin. He asks to tell you that Miss Rowle is not engaged as of yet, and that her gentleman friend has been chased away from–”

“Oh!” Julian exclaims, the music stopping abruptly. “I _knew_ it! That idiot fool Spencer! He has no cunning.”

“Stop pestering Benjamin. He has better things to do than engage in your gossip,” Severus scolds him.

Julian laughs sharply and turns away from the instrument to leer at Severus. “And what are _you_ doing if it is not pestering him for gossip? Did you not enquire to him about your _precious_ Omega? How uncouth of you, Severus, to use your dear friend’s connections for your own selfish means,” he finishes with a reprimanding shake of his head.

“The situation is entirely different, as you are well aware.”

“Yes, yes, the possibility of Lucius spoiling the innocence of your Omega does not compare to Miss Rowle’s scandalous dispositions,” Julian admits, although he is not taking the matter as seriously as Severus wishes he would. “What does Benjamin report then?”

Severus shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says shortly.

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing of substance. Rumours.”

Julian clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Rumours can be substantial. What sort of rumours?”

“Well, it is rather a _lack_ of rumours that he–”

With no warning, Julian stands abruptly and snatches the letter from Severus’ hand. He walks away as he unfolds it, perhaps expecting Severus to protest or give chase. Severus does not, he only sits on the small sofa and waits for the verdict.

“I see,” Julian says when he is done reading, surprisingly serious. “You may be right. This could mean nothing. Even in small towns, people can be particularly secretive, and such a scandal is not to be shouted from the rooftops.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Severus says sombrely.

“ _But_ , from what you have told me about the Weasleys, I doubt your Omega’s mother would keep silent about–”

“Will you not stop calling him that?”

“What?”

“ _My_ Omega,” Severus says coldly. “He is not _mine_.”

Julian’s eyes soften. “You can console yourself with the thought that he is most certainly not Lucius’ either,” he says lightly, as it is common for him to respond to any delicate situation with inappropriate humour. “At least not in the proper sense.”

“It is not the _proper sense_ that worries me,” Severus drawls. “I cannot bear the thought of him suffering as you did–”

“I did not _suffer_.”

Julian’s voice has not exactly turned cold, but there is a hint of warning there, and Severus regrets the words at once, regrets bringing him into the conversation. Before he can think of what to say next, however, Julian, who has now settled at the table and is pouring himself some coffee, speaks again, this time in an honest and reassuring tone.

“You are imagining the worst, Severus, because it is in your nature to do so. But perhaps Lucius did not have the time to do anything. After all, his duties in the militia must keep him busy enough to spare a few Omegas along the way. Benjamin is well informed, and so is his nephew, I expect, and Lucius was never one to keep his exploits quiet for long. If he had done anything to Mr Weasley, I am certain he would be boasting about it and the nephew would have heard by now. Besides, even if he _had_ done something…” He trails off to take a sip of coffee, and then winces. “This is _cold_ ,” he remarks with some disappointment.

“What were you about to say?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.”

“Say what is on your mind.”

Julian winces. “You will not like it.”

“Just tell me,” Severus snaps.

Julian considers him for a long moment before he speaks, slowly. “Have you considered, for an instant, that… your infatuation has possibly caused you to see Mr Weasley in a light that is… perhaps not _entirely_ , but in a large part… of your own construct?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“I mean that…” Julian sighs reluctantly once more, as if whatever he means is perfectly obvious and Severus fails to understand it. “Society as a whole seems to often forget that, just as there are good, kind-hearted Alphas like you and there are greedy, cheating Alphas like Lucius, just as there are simple, honest Betas like Neville, and there are scheming, two-faced Betas like Pansy… there are also all sorts of Omegas. Not all Omegas are helpless and innocent, Severus.”

“I _know_ they are not.”

“And I know you _know_ ,” Julian insists, “but it bears keeping in mind. You say Mr Weasley is innocent, but if you ask me… Well, _innocence_ as a whole…” He pauses and shakes his head. “What does it even truly mean? Is it chastity? Naivety? Virtue?”

“Is this a philosophical debate now?” Severus says dryly.

“What I mean is that you do not know Mr Weasley so well as you think, Severus. From what you have told me, you have barely ever spoken with him at all. Omegas are as complex and as complicated as anyone else, perhaps even more so. We have dreams and fears and hopes and the things we want are… often not the things you would ever believe we could want.”

“Is this your way of implying that I am prejudiced?”

“It is my way of saying that you are stubborn. Infatuation has a tendency to cloud our judgement. And perhaps your affection for Mr Weasley has inadvertently caused you to put him on a pedestal and think of him as something fragile, to be protected, when in truth, how could you know what he truly is, based solely on the very few conversations you have had? What I mean is that this _innocence_ you speak of, which you assume he possesses, may only be the result of society’s own views of Omegas, which have influenced your own judgement, as it happens. Perhaps Mr Weasley was not entirely opposed to whatever Lucius had in mind. Lucius is very handsome, and even if he is a horrible liar, he can be charming. Perhaps Mr Weasley was all too willing to let himself be… _deceived_. Perhaps he did not suffer at all. Perhaps it was quite the opposite. There are all sorts of Omegas. Some enjoy being deceived. Not all of us dream of marriage and protection and–”

“He is not like _you_ ,” Severus snaps coldly. “Perhaps I do not know him as well as I would like, but you have never even met him. If you _had_ , you would understand. He can hardly look a man in the eye, I doubt he has ever given that sort of thing any thought at all, therefore he could not _possibly_ know of Lucius’ intentions.”

Julian only shakes his head, either because he refuses to argue and risk angering Severus further, either because he thinks it is useless to try and reason with him, as he often does. Unconsciously, Severus avoids his gaze, because the thought has just occurred to him, as soon as he said the words, that part of his previous statement is completely wrong.

Mr Weasley is perfectly able to look a man in the eye. He looked Severus in the eye that first night, a long, drawn-out stare across the crowded ballroom. Mr Weasley could look him in the eye very well before he heard Severus say that he was not handsome enough, that he was not worthy of dancing or of any attention. If he cannot look a man in the eye _now_ , it is Severus’ fault… Or perhaps it is only Severus’ gaze that he avoids. And with reason… 

“I meant no offense,” Julian says more softly. “I thought that if you considered the possibility that he may not have been hurt, regardless of what happened, it would be easier for you.”

“It is not.”

“And I did not mean to insult him in any way. If he truly is the way you speak of… if he truly is able to remain so trusting in such a world… then all the better for him, I suppose.”

Before Severus can reply, Dobson walks in. “Sir, Mr Longbottom, Miss Parkinson, Mr and Mrs and Miss Nott have arrived,” he announces.

Severus stands at once, glad to be able to forget about the conversation. “Thank you, Dobson.”

“ _Miss Nott_?” Julian repeats with some surprise. “Theodore’s sister is here?”

“I am certain I mentioned yesterday that she would come. It is my understanding that Pansy hopes Neville will take a liking to her.”

Julian scoffs. “Neville may very well take a liking to _her_ , but I doubt she would return it. I am certain she has her own reason for coming here,” he says, the words heavy with implication.

Severus shakes his head. “What are you talking about now?”

As he stands and straightens his waistcoat, Julian rolls his eyes at him. “Severus. _Surely_ you cannot be so blind.” He throws him a disappointed stare before heading out into the entrance hall to greet their guests.

When Severus emerges into the hall, the front door is opened for the footmen to carry his guests’ luggage from the carriage and up the stairs to their appointed quarters. Pansy is reaching out to embrace Julian as if they were the best of friends, which Severus knows they definitely are not. It is quite evident to everyone who knows them that they harbour a strong dislike of each other, and yet they both seem determined to pretend otherwise. It does, however, make for an entertaining spectacle.

“Oh, my darling, _darling_ , Julian!” Pansy exclaims, too enthusiastically to be believable. “How I have missed you! It has been too long! We _must_ try to meet more often!”

“My dear, such a _delight_ , as always,” Julian responds, his words just as duplicitous. When he turns to Astoria, however, his smile is genuine. “Sweet Astoria, how do you do?”

“How lovely to see you again,” she says softly as Julian, ever the perfect host, presses a kiss to her hand.

Just then, Neville enters, having been exchanging words with the footmen just outside. He grins widely when he sees Julian, and both young men embrace at once like brothers.

“Neville, you dullard! How have you been?”

Neville is not upset with the insult, of course, and he laughs loudly. “Quite well since I last saw your revolting face!”

“Severus,” Theodore interrupts at once, ignoring the tedious greetings and walking up to him. “May I take Heracles out on the moors?”

“I took him out just this morning, but you may, of course.”

“Oh, Theo, we have just arrived, darling,” Astoria chastises. “Would you not rest for a little while?”

“I have spent hours shut up in that wretched carriage,” Theodore complains, already heading out the front door. “The last thing I want is to rest.”

Julian, through the commotion, has turned to greet the third young lady. “Miss Nott. How good of you to join us. I hope you had a pleasant journey. I can think of few things more unpleasant than the thought of travelling with this boisterous lot all the way from London.”

Severus has only met Eleanora Nott twice before, once at a luncheon hosted by Theodore’s parents last year, and once when she accompanied her brother and sister-in-law to dine at Severus’ house in Mayfair a few months ago. Miss Nott is a few years younger than her brother, and although she shares his good looks, she more than makes up for his occasional lack of manners. When nothing much interests Theodore other than horse races and similar forms of entertainment, Miss Nott is well-spoken and intelligent and amusing. She does smile too much for Severus’ liking, however, and is fond of engaging him in conversation when he would rather remain quiet.

She smiles politely, and if she is at all uncomfortable with Julian’s presence, as Severus knows often is the case with people of her standing, she hides it well.

“Thank you, Mr Black. I must admit there were times I did not know that I would survive,” she says lightly before turning her attention to Severus at once. “Mr Snape, it is so kind of you to welcome me into your home. I have heard such wonderful things about Prince Manor and I just _had_ to see it for myself. It truly is a splendid estate.”

“You _must_ see the conservatory, dear Eleanora,” Pansy insists. “Neville, will you not give our friend a tour? You know this house as well as our host, and surely you have many interesting stories to tell.”

“It would be my pleasure, of course. May we not have breakfast first, however? I am positively starving!” Neville declares, earning a dark look from his cousin, but Miss Nott seems unperturbed by the postponing of the visit, for her attention is still on Severus.

“Oh yes, let us eat first,” Astoria insists, letting Julian lead her away toward the dining room, where food should be served at any moment.

“I heard that your grandfather was a very important man, Mr Snape,” Miss Nott tells Severus, stepping closer so that Severus obligingly allows her to take his arm as they follow the others. “He was quite learned, was he not?”

“He was, yes,” Severus replies, avoiding Miss Nott’s piercing gaze, which he finds quite insistent, as is her grip of his arm. “I have not had the pleasure of knowing him, for he died before my birth. He was an architect and a philanthropist as well as a lover of philosophy. He never let his fortune get in the way of his interests and wrote many essays and journals.”

“Do you write as well?” Miss Nott asks at once, her eyes never leaving his face.

“Only letters. Nothing of importance,” Severus says shortly.

Miss Nott laughs as if he has said something infinitely funny and tightens her grip on his arm. Severus winces, hurrying the pace so that they reach the dining room as fast as possible. He understands now what Julian was implying earlier, about how Miss Nott’s likings may differ from what Pansy would hope them to be. And he understands as well that this will be a very long week indeed.


End file.
